TS3 

$ 


TO   THE   END   OF  THE  TRAIL 


BY   RICHARD   HOVEY 


LAUNCELOT    AND    GUENEVERE 
A  Poem  in  Dramas 

I  THE  QUEST  OF  MERLIN:    A  Masque 

II  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  GUENEVERE:    A  Tragedy 

III  THE    BIRTH    OF    GALAHAD:     A    Romantic 

Drama 

IV  TALIESIN:    A  Masque 

V    THE  HOLY  GRAAL  AND  OTHER  FRAGMENTS 

ALONG  THE  TRAIL 


Each  volume  $1.25   net  ;  postage  5  cents.    The  five 
Arthurian  poems,  boxed,  $5.00  net  ;  postage  25  cents. 


END  OF  THE  T1A1L 

RICDARD-DOVEY 

EDITED  WITH  NOTES  BT 

MRS.   RICHARD  HOVEY 


NEW  YORK 

DUFFIELD  &  COMPANY 
1908 


COPYRIGHT,  1908,  BY 

DUFFIELD   &   COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  thanks  of  the  editor  and  the  publishers  are 
due  to  Small,  Maynard  and  Company  for  their  kind 
permission  to  use  from  "Songs  from  Vagabondia." 
"And  If  Some  Day  He  Come  Back,"  which  is 
needed  to  complete  the  set  of  ten  songs  sent  by  M. 
Maeterlinck  to  Mr.  Hovey,  for  translation. 


615076 


With  the  exception  of  some  unpublished  plays,  the 
present  collection  contains  all  the  important  remain 
ing  poems  of  Richard  Hovey.  All  are  here  pub 
lished  in  book  form  for  the  first  time,  except  "  Sea 
ward."  A  few  bibliographical  notes  have  been 
added 

HENRIETTE  HOVEY. 

NEW  YORK,  December,  1907. 


CONTENTS 
I 

PAGE 

THE  LAUREL,  AN  ODE      ....'....  3 

SEAWARD 16 

A  VISION  OF  PARNASSUS 30 

II 

SHORT  BEACH 43 

THE  GYPSY 43 

THE  ORIENT 44 

MALLARME" 45 

DISCOVERY 45 

PERE  AMBROISE 57 

A  LYRIC 66 

III 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  WIND 71 

SHAKESPEARE 72 

MER-EN-MUT 72 

THE  LADY  OF  THE  CAPE 73 

Two  POETS        74 

REBELLION 77 

A  PATRICIAN  POET 80 

HYMN  FOR  THE  HOLY  DAY  OF  ST.  CATHERINE 

OF  ALEXANDRIA 86 

vii 


PAGE 
IV 

(TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MAETERLINCK) 

I.  ELLE  L'ENCHAINA  DANS  UNE  GROTTE    .     .  95 

II.   ET  s'lL  REVENAIT  UN  JOUR 96 

III.  ILS  ONT  TUB  TROIS  PETITES  FILLES      ...  97 

IV.  LES   FILLES  AUX   YEUX   BANDES    ....  97 
V.   LES  TROIS  SCEURS  AVEUGLES           ....  98 

VI.    ON  EST  VENU  DIRE         .......  99 

VII.    LES  SEPT  FILLES  D'ORLAMONDE            .       .       .  IOO 

VIII.    QUAND    IL   EST    SORTI            101 

IX.    VOUS    AVEZ    ALLUME    LES    LAMPES            .       .  101 

"X.  J'AI  CHERCHE"  TRENTE  ANS,  MES  SCEURS    .  102 

(TRANSLATIONS  FROM  STEPHANE  MALLARM£) 

I.  THE  SIGH 103 

II.  THE  FLOWERS 104 

III.  THE  WINDOWS 105 

(TRANSLATIONS  FROM  PAUL  VERLAINE) 

THE  FAUN 107 

V 

DON  JUAN— CANTO  XVII in 

VI 

PARTING 133 

KRONOS 133 

To  PROF.  C.  F.  RICHARDSON 134 

viii 


PAGE 

A  YOUTHFUL  POET  AND  His  CRITICS  ....  135 

DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 135 

To  SWINBURNE — I 136 

To  SWINBURNE — II 137 

PER  ASPERA  AD  ASTRA 137 

A  REMNANT  REMAINETH 138 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD 139 

VII 

MAN  AND  CRAFTSMAN 143 

MODELS 143 

THE  LAST  LOVE  OF  GAWAINE 144 

WHAT  THOUGH  You  LOVE  ME 145 

HURT  ME 145 

FALSE  TRUTH 146 

LOVE  AND  PITY 147 

LOVE'S   SILENCE 147 

Au  SEUIL 148 


IX 


TO    THE    END    OF    THE    TRAIL 
1880-1900 


THE   LAUREL 

AN  ODE 
TO  MARY  DAY  LANIER 

("  The  Laurel,"  written  long  ago  and  only  printed  by  ths 
author  for  his  friends,  was  delayed  from  publication  awaiting 
a  projected  volume  which  was  to  be  dedicated  to  his  mother 
and  called  "  Odes  and  Hymns."  This  volume  was  never 
prepared,  so  that  "  The  Laurel  "  is  now  first  published  for 
the  general  public.  H.H.) 

[str.  a. 

O  LADY  loved  of  our  sweet  sunrise  singer 
Whose  name  Song  speaks  with  lingering  of  the 

lips, 
Our  laureate  of  the  marshes,  our  light-bringer 

Out  of  the  darkness  of  fair  Love's  eclipse! 
Out  of  the  jar  of  ways  that  Trade  has  turned 
Into  a  mart  where  Love  may  have  no  place 

Save  it  be  bought  and  sold, 
A  rare  fair  soul  like  a  clear  lamp  burned 
And  shot  through  the  mirk  its  sudden  rays 

And  over  the  smoke-pit  a  glimmer  of  gold 
Flashed  and  a  voice,  like  the  brook-note  of  a  flute 
That  in  its  passioning  still  is  pure  and  cool, 
Or  the  clear  sharp  dropping  of  water  into  a  pool 
When  all  the  woods  are  mute, 
Spake  and  the  sound  thereof 
Brake  through  the  barrier, 

Keen  as  the  silver  sword  of  the  moon; 
"  Woe  to  the  warrior 


Liegeman  of  Love 
Found,  when  the  fighting 

Grows  fierce  for  the  victor's  boon, 
Far  from  the  foeman! 
See  where  the  dark  hosts  stay  for  our  smiting ! " 

0  gracious,  queenly,  softly-smiling  woman ! 

Thee  with  his  light  and  sweetness  this  man  dowered, 
To  whom  the  laurel  leaf  of  right  belongs. 

Ah  me!  and  how  should  I 
Take  from  thy  hands  the  branch  that  greened  and 

flowered 

More  beautifully,  tangled  in  his  hair, 
Amid  the  city's  flowerless  throngs, 
Than  when  beside  the  braes  of  Delaware 

It  swayed  beneath  the  languid  sky, 
Ere  it  was  honored,  honoring  his  songs. 

[ant.  a. 
Not  unto  me,  not  unto  me,  fair  Lady — 

1  dare  not  let  the  sacred  leaves  be  bound 
About  my  brow.    My  song  is  all  unready 

So  soon  to  seek  so  greatly  to  be  crowned. 
I  would  go  find  some  sager  singer — sure, 
There  are  wise  poets  somewhere  in  the  world — 

And  yield  the  wreath  to  him. 
My  song-flight  yet  is  but  insecure, 
The  blooms  of  my  rose-tree  scarce  uncurled, 
The  blush  of  the  blossoming  faint  and  dim. 


Ah,  but  I  may  not  resign  so  the  high  crown 
Nor  to  another  deliver  its  dear  weight 
Thou  hast  bound  my  brow  with  it,  mine — crowned 

me  in  state — 

Set  me  above  Time's  frown. 
Not  I  may  undo  the  deed 
Wrought  by  thee  royally, 

Queen  in  thy  right  and  the  love  of  thy  lord ! 
Let  me  then  loyally 
Kneel  in  my  need 
And  pray  that  Apollo 

Breathe  wisdom  into  the  word 
That  my  lips  shall  deliver. 
So  shall  my  song  fly  swift  as  the  swallow 

To  greet  thee  with  its  perfected  endeavor, 
Saying;  "My  lord  that  wrought  me,  sends  me  thee- 

ward, 
The  late  fulfilment  of  the  labor  thou 

Didst  bind  upon  his  youth." 

As  sea-gulls  turn  their  singing  flight  to  seaward, 
I  turn  me  to  the  mighty  sea  of  song, 

Guiding  the  glad  swerve  of  the  prow 
Of  my  light  boat  of  melody  down  long 
Sea-ways  of  beauty,  freedom,  truth, 
Eastward  where  Day  shall  bare  his  rosy  brow. 


I  take  the  lyre  with  steady  hand  [ep.  a. 

But  reverent,  knowing  well  how  long 

And  bitter  are  the  ways  of  song, 
How  few  that  reach  its  Promised  Land] 
I  know  my  weakness  and  my  strength; 

I  know  that  the  toil  will  task  me  sore ; 
And,  though  glad  and  proud,  I  am  made  at  length 

More  humble  of  heart  than  I  was  before. 
For  I  felt,  when  my  song  was  so  o'er-requited, 

As  a  maid  when  she  first  finds  love  and  is  still, 
And  my  soul  knelt  down  as  a  thrall  new-knighted, 

Abashed  and  wondering,  weak  to  fulfil. 
For  he  should  be  strong  who  shall  wear  this  crown, 
Wise  and  great-hearted,  just  to  king  and  clown, 
Sweet  and  serene  and  full  of  grace 
And  pure  as  Daphne  ere  the  fatal  race — 
Daphne,  the  daughter  of  the  river  god, 

Whose  beauty  was  a  pearl  whose  worth  surpassed 

The  cruel  wealth  the  Cretan's  touch  amassed. 
But  she  loved  more  the  woodland  paths  she  trod 
Untrammeled,  than  the  rule  of  Hymen's  rod, 

And  pleading  many  times  for  leave  to  cast 

Her  lot  with  virgin  Artemis,  at  last 
Won  from  her  father  the  consenting  nod. 
And  she  and  her  maidens  withdrew  from  the  fret 

and  the  pother 

Back  to  the  home  in  the  heart  of  the  sweet  rough 
mother, 

6 


Mother  of  all  things,  the  earth,  and  drank  of  the 

crystalline  chalice 
She  fills  for  her  children  that  love  her,  a  cup  of 

refreshing  and  peace, 
Chased  the  roe  on  the  rocks  and  hunted  the  hart 

through  the  valleys, 
Raced   in   sport  through   the   groves   with   gowns 

kilted  up  to  the  knees, 
Saw  through  the  mists  of  the  morning  the  gleam  of 

the  cold  dawn  shining, 
Ranged  through  many  a  woodland  and  bathed  in 

many  a  stream, 
Wonderful,   virginal,   holy,    aloof    from    desire    and 

repining ; 

And  Artemis  smiled  on  the  maidens  and  the  days 
went  fleet  as  a  dream. 

[sir-  0. 

But  Love,  who  saves  and  slays  in  a  strange  fashion, 
Smote   twain   for   this   maid-queen   of  glens   and 

glades. 

Love  pierced  the  great  Apollo  with  keen  passion, 
And  sent  Leucippus  masking  with  the  maids. 
It  is  an  ill  thing  to  contend  with  gods. 
Leucippus  did  not  long  behold  the  light 

In  the  leaves  like  sifted  gold. 
Lo,  they  have  stripped  him  and  beaten  with  rods, 
Mocked  him  and  cursed  him  and  slain  him  quite. 
But  Daphne  far  from  the  strife  sat  cold, 

7 


Lone  and  unmoved,  and  the  god  came  to  her  there, 
Abashed,  and  lay  at  her  feet  and  begged  his  bliss 
With  the  lips  Song  sprang  from,  and  sighed  his 

soul  for  a  kiss — 
He,  to  whom  kings  made  prayer. 
So  great  Apollo  sued; 

But  she,  with  her  maiden  heart 

Fluttered  and  frayed  as  a  bird  in  a  snare, 
Fled  with  fear-laden  heart 
Into  the  wood. 
And  Apollo  up-leaping 

And  rent  with  desire  and  despair, 
Sped  after  her,  crying: 

"Ah,  leave  me  not,  love,  to  lie  widowed  and  weep 
ing! 
Oh,    Daphne !    Daphne ! "    and    the    sound    went 

sighing, 

"  Oh,  Daphne ! "  softlier  through  the  echoing  arches, 
But  the  maid  flees  the  swiftlier  that  the  air 

Shakes  with  that  longing  sound. 
Swift,    swift   the    sweet   shape    speeds   between   the 

larches ! 

Swift,  swift  the  god  pursues,  and  now  is  near 
With  arms  outstretched  to  clasp!       Despair 
Spurs  her — but  love  has  faster  feet  than  fear. 

She  hears  his  sandals  smite  the  ground 
And  feels  his  breathing  on  her  neck  and  hair. 
8 


[ant.  ft. 
And  now  the  glad  god  feels  the  grapes  of  joyance 

Bursting  upon  the  palate  of  his  soul. 
A  storm-like  exultation,  a  mad  buoyance 

Sweeps  all  the  cords  of  life  from  his  control. 
But  ere  his  lips  touch  hers,  she  gives  one  shrill 
Cry,  and   is  heard;   and  the  captor  whose   swift 

arms  close 

About  her  like  the  dark, 

Feels  the  throbs  subside  and  the  limbs  grow  still 
And  the  smooth  breasts  stiffen  that  fell  and  rose, 

And  the  ripe  mouth  roughen  to  bitter  bark 
Under  the  pressure  of  lips  fierce  for  a  kiss. 

"  Ai,  ai,  me  wretched ! "  the  god  mourns  in  his 

woe, 

"  Ah,  the  sweet  eyes  closed  and  the  fleet  limbs  fet 
tered!    And  oh, 
The  fair  life  gone  amiss! 
Ah,  the  beauty!  the  grace! 
Ah,  the  delight  of  it! 

The  fleet  light  flash  of  her  flying  feet ! 
Never  shall  sight  of  it 
Now  flush  my  face 
In  near  land  or  far  land. 

Yet  not  wholly  I  lose  thee,  my  sweet! 
On  my  brow,  a  dear  burden, 

Thy  leaves  shall  be  laid,  my  grief  and  my  garland. 
For  loss  of  love  I  am  given  a  barren  guerdon — 


An  austere  crown  for  raptures  hymeneal. 
And  ever  henceforth  he  whom  my  lovers  laud, 

Shall  wear  this  sacred  leaf — 
The  Daphne  of  his  unattained  Ideal 
Imperishably  laurelled  in  his  hair. 

And  now  I  go.    My  feet  have  trod 
A  weary  way.    I  see  Fate  does  not  spare 

Even  to  the  Immortals  failure  and  grief. 
I  also  have  my  duties,  though  a  god." 

['P.  ft- 
Spirit  of  beauty,  not  without 

A  hidden  sorrow  at  thy  heart 

We  fable  thee, — though  what  thou  art 
In  truth,  we  cannot  choose  but  doubt, — 
For  all  the  beauty  that  we  know 

Is  pierced  with  a  secret  sense  of  pain, 
And  not  till  the  time-floods  cease  to  flow 

Can  the  sad  and  sweet  be  cleft  in  twain. 
O  grand  Greek  god!— for  I  hold  it  true, 

That  strange  myth  blown  from  the  Doric  sea — 
O  bay-bound  brow  that  so  well  I  knew, 

When  faith  was  an  easy  thing  to  me! 
Bright  god  of  song!     Strong  lord  of  light! 
Earth  and  the  sea  take  beauty  at  thy  sight; 
The  Python  shrivels,  pierced  with  thy  lance; 
And  the  dead  rise  at  thy  life-giving  glance. 


10 


Spirit  of  beauty,  born  of  the  divine  breath 
With  its  first  issuance  into  Time  and  Space! 
Shaping  the  whole  creation  into  grace 
Through  intimate  interflux  of  life  and  death! 
Lifting  the  transient,  as  it  anguisheth, 
To  the  serene  wherein  change  hath  no  place! 
High  Son  of  God,  that  lookest  on  God's  face ! 
Supremest  angel  that  God  uttereth! 
Make  me  a  flute  for  thy  lips,  a  lute  for  thy  ringers ! 
Take   me,    O   lord   of   the   lyre, — the    least    of   thy 

singers, 
Least  of  the  voices  that  follow  thee,  lured  from  thy 

feet  by  none  other, 
Least  of  thy  servants,  Apollo,  whose  wages  are 

sunlight  and  tears — 
Take  me  to  rest   in  thy  deeps,   as   a  child   at  the 

breast  of  its  mother, 
Give  me  the  peace  of  thy  kiss  and  strength  for 

the  strife  of  the  years ! 
Bitter  and  sweet  are  thy  gifts.    Thou  hast  borne  me 

aloft  as  a  feather 
That   the   wind    blows    hither    and   thither   till    it 

falls  in  the  foam  of  the  sea; 
Thou  hast  given  me  haven  and   home ;   thou   hast 

given  me  wind  and  rough  weather; 
And  I  lift  thee  my  heart  for  a  lyre,  for  the  gifts 
thou  hast  given  to  me. 


II 


[str.  y. 
Behold,  of  him  unto  whom  much  is  given, 

Much  is  required.    It  is  a  fearful  thing 
To  be  a  poet.    How  shall  he  be  shriven, 

If  greed  or  fear  restrain  his  uttering? 
Oh,  ill  for  him,  whoever  he  may  be, 
Who  looks  upon  the  glory  of  the  night 

And  is  not  glad  of  heart! 
Behold,  he  hath  eyes  and  he  doth  not  see! 
How  shall  his  soul  see  the  very  light? 
Shall   he   ever   emerge   from   the   mirk   of   the 

mart? 

Ay,  but  if  he  whom  the  high  gods  have  ordained 
Their  priest,  speak  not  the  truth  that  his  eye  shall 

see, 
There  shall  be  no  spirit  in  hell   so   scourged  as 

he— 

No  soul  so  self-disdained. 
Woe  to  the  chosen  one, 
Lured  from  his  lonely  way, 

Bullied  or  bribed  to  abandon  the  shrine ! 
There  is  one  only  way — 
None  other — none. 
Lady,  whose  bay-flowers 

I  wear  for  a  fear  and  a  sign, 
If  the  world  should  beguile  me 

With  music  and  masking  and  glitter  of  gay  flowers, 
Then  I  could  not  reply,  should'st  thou  revile  me, 

12 


Wordless  and  more  in  high  contempt  than  ire. 
Ay,  even  if,  feeling  at  sight  of  the  sweet  goal 

Mine  own  unworthiness, 

I  should  delay  to  seize  the  seven-tongued  lyre, 
Lest  I  should  do  its  sacred  strings  some  wrong, 

Thou  might'st  well  leave  me  with  small  dole 
And  he  who  is  the  Virgil  to  my  song, 

Scorning  my  timorous  distress, 
Might  well  reproach  the  vileness  of  my  soul. 

[ant.  y. 
There  is  so  much  that  I  would  fain  be  singing, 

I  know  not  if  my  voice  may  fail,  my  friend, 
Nor  if  the  years  may  ever  see  me  bringing 

My  lyric  labors  to  a  tranquil  end. 
The  new  world,  rising  from  its  fiery  death, 
Spreads    its    strong,    phoenix-wings    for    sunward 

flight, 

Impatient  of  the  past. 

The  Trade-snake  belches   his   foul  black  breath 
From   a   thousand   throats    and   the   throng  takes 

fright. 

And  cowers  and  the  sky  is  overcast. 
Hark,  but  the  hurry  of  hoof-beats  in  the  air! 
The  new  Bellerophon  of  the  unborn  years! 
And  his  cry  rings  out  like  a  victor's  shout  in  our 
ears, 

13 


Piercing  the  monster's  lair. 

Song  is  the  steed  he  rides, 

Wisdom  the  bridle-rein. 

Who   shall  withstand  him?    Who  shall   delay? 
Not  with  an  idle  rein 
Grimly  he  guides. 
Death  for  the  dragon! 

For  men,  where  a  fen  was,  a  way 
For  the  footing  of  freemen! 
Then  shall  the  poets  pour  us  a  flagon, 
Sweet  as  rain  to  the  throats  of  ship-wrecked  sea 
men, 

And  the  spent  world  shall  draw  a  freer  breath, — 
Though  still  may  men  see  Faith  as  one  astray, 

And  Hope  with  weary  eyes, 
And  wan  Love  beating  at  the  gates  of  Death. 
Wise   eyes    shall    pierce   the    darkness    with    sweet 

scorn 

And  wise  lips  clarion  our  way 
Through  ever  loftier  portals  of  the  morn, 

With  lark-songs  greatening  as  they  rise 
In  the  large  glories  of  the  coming  day. 

[ep.  y. 

For  surely  from  the  childing  night 
That  labors  in  a  God's  birth-throes, 
Shall  come  at  last  dawn's  baby-rose, 

The  potency  of  perfect  light. 

14 


I  see  the  seraph  of  the  years, 

Asleep  in  the  womb  of  the  Lord's  intent, 
And  the  ripple  of  laughter  in  his  ears 

Is  seen  on  his  face  as  a  great  content. 
And  the  wise  lips  smile  and  the  grand  brow  flushes 

For  joy  at  the  joy  that  his  own  arm  brings, 
Like  a, smile  of  May  when  the  wild  rose  blushes. 

And  deep  in  the  thicket  the  wood-thrush  sings. 
I  see  him  at  rest  on  the  rim  of  Time, 
Stretched  on  the  cloud-rack,  couchant  and  sublime, 
And  the  swift  white  sword  at  his  side,  half-drawn, 
Flashes  a  distant  glimmer  of  the  dawn. 
I  see,  though  darkly,  what  my  spirit  sought; 

I  see  what  is,  beneath  what  comes  and  goes; 

I  see  the  sweet  unfolding  of  the  rose, 
By  changeless  influence  to  full  beauty  brought; 
I  hear  the  symphony  intricately  wrought; 

Dim  meanings  swell  through  deep  adagios 

And  underneath  the  myriad  chords  disclose 
The  perfect  act  of  God  that  changeth  not. 
Behold,  He  is  other  than  earth  and  transcendeth  its 

seeming ; 
Behold,  He  is  one  with  the  earth  and  the  earth  is 

His  dreaming. 

Soul  of  the  world,  say  the  sages;  yea,  sooth,  but 
not  bound  in  a  prison, 

For  the  soul  dwelleth  not  in  the  body,  but  the 
body  doth  dwell  in  the  soul. 

15 


O  Holy  of  Holies!    Inscrutable!    Ageless!  through 

Thee  have  we  risen; 
Thou  art,  but  our  being  is  yearning,— we  are  not 

save  as  parts  of  Thy  whole. 
Only  by  cleaving  to  Thee  have  Thy  creatures  the 

life  that  rejoices, 

Knowing  itself  to  be,  verily;  the  rest  is  but  seem 
ing  to  be; 
And   the    whole   world,    groaning   in   travail,   cries 

out  with  its  manifold  voices, 

"O  Lord,  in  Thee  have  we  trusted;  there  is  no 
life  but  in  Thee!" 


SEAWARD 

AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THOMAS  WILLIAM  PARSONS 
"  II   tremolar   della   marina." — DANTE. 

THE  tide  is  in  the  marshes.     Far  away 
In  Nova  Scotia's  woods  they  follow  me, 

Marshes  of  distant  Massachusetts  Bay, 
Dear  marshes,  where  the  dead  once  loved  to  be! 

I  see  them  lying  yellow  in  the  sun, 
And  hear  the  mighty  tremor  of  the  sea 

Beyond  the  dunes  where  blue  cloud  shadows  run, 
16 


I  know  that  there  the  tide  is  coming  in, 
Secret  and  slow,  for  in  my  heart  I  feel 

The  silent  swelling  of  a  stress  akin; 
And  in  my  vision,  lo !  blue  glimpses  steal 

Across  the  yellow  marsh-grass,  where  the  flood, 
Filling  the  empty  channels,  lifts  the  keel 

Of  one  lone  catboat  bedded  in  the  mud. 

The  tide  is  in  the  marshes.    Kingscroft  fades; 

It  is  not  Minas  there  across  the  lea; 
But  I  am  standing  under  pilgrim  shades 

Far  off  where  Scituate  lapses  to  the  sea. 
And  he,  my  elder  brother  in  the  muse, 

The  poet  of  the  Charles  and  Italy, 
Stands  by  my  side,  Song's  gentle,  shy  recluse. 

The  hermit  thrush  of  singers,  few  might  draw 
So  near  his  ambush  in  the  solitude 

As  to  be  witness  of  the  holy  awe 

And  passionate  sweetness  of  his  singing  mood 

Not  oft  he  sang,  and  then  in  ways  apart, 
Where  foppish  ignorance  might  not  intrude 

To  mar  the  joy  of  his  sufficing  art. 

Only  for  love  of  song  he  sang,  unbid 
And  unexpectant  of  responsive  praise; 

But  they  that  loved  and  sought  him  where  he  hid 
Forbearing  to  profane  his  templed  ways, 

17 


Went  marveling  if  that  clear  voice  they  heard 

Pass  thrilling  through  the  hushed  religious  maze 
Were  of  a  spirit  singing  or  a  bird. 

Alas,  he  is  not  here,  he  will  not  sing; 

The  air  is  empty  of  him  evermore. 
Alone  I  watch  the  slow  kelp-gatherers  bring 

Their  dories  full  of  sea-moss  to  the  shore. 
No  gentle  eyes  look  out  to  sea  with  mine, 

No  gentle  lips  are  uttering  quaint  lore, 
No  hand  is  on  my  shoulder  for  a  sign. 

Far,  far,  so -far,  the  crying  of  the  surf! 

Still,  still,  so  still,  the  water  in  the  grass! 
Here  on  the  knoll  the  crickets  in  the  turf, 

And  one  bold  squirrel  barking,  seek,  alas, 
To  bring  the  swarming  summer  back  to  me. 

In  vain — my  heart  is  on  the  salt  morass 
Below,  that  stretches  to  the  sunlit  sea. 

Interminable,  not  to  be  divined, 

The  ocean's  solemn  distances  recede; 
A  gospel  of  glad  color  to  the  mind, 

But  for  the  soul  a  voice  of  sterner  creed. 
The  sadness  of  unfathomable  things 
Calls  from  the  waste  and  makes  the  heart  give 

heed 

With  answering  dirges,  as  a  seashell  sings, 
18 


Mother  of  infinite  loss !    Mother  bereft ! 

Thou  of  the  shaken  hair !     Far-questing  Sea ! 
Sea  of  the  lapsing  wail  of  waves !     O  left 

Of  many  lovers !     Lone,  lamenting  Sea ! 
Desolate,  proud,  disheveled,  lost  sublime ! 

Unquelled  and  reckless!     Mad,  despairing  Seal 
Wail,  for  I  wait — wail,  ancient  dirge  of  Time! 

No  more,  no  more  that  brow  to  greet,  no  more! 

Mourn,  bitter  heart!    mourn,  fool  of  Fate!    Again 
Thy  lover  leaves  thee ;  from  thy  pleading  shore 

Swept  far  beyond  the  caverns  of  the  rain, 
No  phantom  of  him  lingers  on  the  air. 

Thy  foamy  fingers  reach  for  his — in  vain! 
In  vain  thy  salt  breath  searches  for  his  hair ! 

Mourn  gently,  tranquil  marshes,  mourn  with  me ! 

Mourn,  if  acceptance  so  serene  can  mourn! 
Grieve,  marshes,  tho'  your  noonday  melody 

Of  color  thrill  through  sorrow  like  a  horn 
Blown  far  in  Elfland !     Mourn,  free-wandering  dunes. 

For  he  has  left  you  of  his  voice  forlorn, 
Who  sang  your  slopes  full  of  an  hundred  Junes. 

O  viking  Death,  what  hast  thou  done  with  him? 

Sea-wolf  of  Fate,  marauder  of  the  shore! 
Storm  reveler,  to  what  carousal  grim 

Hast   thou    compelled    him?    Hark,    through   the 
Sea's  roar 

19 


Heroic  laughter  mocking  us  afar! 

There  will  no  answer  come  for  evermore, 
Though  for  his  sake  Song  beacon  to  a  star. 

Mourn,  Muse  beyond  the  sea!    Ausonian  Muse! 

Mourn,  where  thy  vinelands  watch  the  day  depart ! 
Mourn  for  him,  where  thy  sunsets  interfuse, 

Who  loved  thy  beauty  with  no  alien  heart 
And  sang  it  in  his  not  all  alien  line! 

Muse  of  the  passionate  thought  and  austere  art! 
O  Dante's  Muse!  lament  his  son  and  thine. 

And  thou,  divine  one  of  this  western  beach ! 

A  double  loss  has  left  thee  desolate ; 
Two  rooms  are  vacant  in  thy  House  of  Speech, 

Two  ghosts  have  vanished  through  the  open  gate. 
The  Attic  spirit,  epicure  of  light, 

The  Doric  heart,  strong,  simple,  passionate, 
Thy  priest  of  Beauty  and  thy  priest  of  Right. 

Last  of  the  elder  choir  save  one  whose  smile 

Is  gentler,  for  its  memories,  they  rest. 
Mourn,  goddess,  come  apart  and  mourn  awhile ! 
Come   with   thy   sons,    lithe    Song-Queen    of   the 

West,— 
The  poet  Friend  of  Poets,  the  great  throng 

Of  seekers  on  the  long  elusive  quest, 
And  the  lone  voice  of  Arizonian  song. 
20 


Nor  absent  they,  thy  latest-born,  0  Muse, 
My  young  companions  in  Art's  wildwood  ways; 

She  whose  swift  verse  speaks  words  that  smite  and 

bruise 
With  scarlet  suddenness  of  flaming  phrase, 

Virginia's  hawk  of  Song;  and  he  who  sings 
Alike  his  people's  homely  rustic  lays, 

And  his  fine  spirit's  high  imaginings, 

Far-stretching  Indiana's  melodist; 

Quaint,  humorous,  full  of  quirks  and  wanton  whims, 
Full  throated  with  imagination  kissed; 

With  these  two  pilgrims  from  auroral  streams. 
The  Greek  revealer  of  Canadian  skies, 

And  thy  close  darling,  voyager  of  dreams, 
Carman,  the  sweetest,  strangest  voice  that  cries. 

And  thou,  friend  of  my  heart,  in  fireside  bonds 
Near  to  the  dead,  not  with  the  poet's  bay 

Brow-bound  but  eminent  with  kindred  fronds, 
Paint  us  some  picture  of  the  summer  day 

For  his  memorial — the  distant  dune, 
The  marshes  stretching  palpitant  away 

And  blue  sea  fervid  with  the  stress  of  noon. 

For  we  were  of  the  few  who  knew  his  face, 
Nor  only  heard  the  rumor  of  his  fame; 

This  house  beside  the  sea  the  sacred  place 
Where  first  with  thee  to  clasp  his  hand  I  came — 
21 


Art's  knight  of  courtesy,  eager  to  commend, 
Who  to  my  youth  accorded  the  dear  name 
Of  poet,  and  the  dearer  name  of  friend. 

Ah,  that  last  bottle  of  old  Gascon  wine 
We  drank  together!     I  remember  too 

How  carefully  he  placed  it  where  the  shine 
Of  the   warm   sun  might  pierce   it  through   and 
through, — 

Wise  in  all  gentle,  hospitable  arts— 
And  there  was  sunshine  in  it  when  we  drew 

The  cork  and  drank,  and  sunshine  in  our  hearts. 

0  mourners  by  the  sea,  who  loved  him  most! 
I  watch  you  where  you  move,  I  see  you  all; 

Unmarked  I  glide  among  you  like  a  ghost, 
And  on  the  portico,  in  room  and  hall, 

Lay  visionary  fingers  on  your  hair. 
You  do  not  feel  their  unsubstantial  fall 

Nor  hear  my  silent  tread,  but  I  am  there. 

1  would  my  thought  had  but  the  weakest  throat, 
To  set  the  air  a-vibrate  with  a  word. 

Alas!  dumb,  ineffectual,  remote, 
I  murmur,  but  my  solace  is  not  heard; 

Nor,  could  I  reach  you,  would  your  grief  abate. 
What  sorrow  ever  was  with  speech  deterred? 

What  power  has  Song  against  the  hand  of  Fate  ?  .  .  . 

22 


Not  all  in  vain !    For  with  the  will  to  serve, 
Myself  am  served,  at  least.    A  secure  calm 

Soars  in  my  soul  with  wings  that  will  not  swerve, 
And  on  my  brow  I  feel  a  ministering  palm. 

Even  in  the  effort  for  another's  peace 
I  have  achieved  mine  own.    I  hear  a  psalm 

Of  angels,  and  the  grim  forebodings  cease. 

I  see  things  as  they  are,  nor  longer  yield 
To  truce  and  parley  with  the  doubts  of  sense. 

My  certainty  of  vision  goes  a-field, 
Wide-ranging,  fearless,  into  the  immense; 

And  finds  no  terror  there,  no  ghost  nor  ghoul, 
Not  to  be  dazzled  back  to  impotence, 

Confronted  with  the  indomitable  soul. 

What  goblin  frights  us?    Are  we  children,  then, 
To  start  at  shadows?    Things  fantastic  slay 

The  imperishable  spirit  in  whose  ken 
Their  only  birth  is?    Blaze  one  solar  ray 

Across  the  grisly  darkness  that  appals, 

And  where  the  gloom  was  murkiest,  the  bright  Day 

Laughs  with  a  light  of  blosmy  coronals. 

Stretch  wide,  O  marshes,  in  your  golden  joy! 

Stretch  ample,  marshes,  in  serene  delight! 
Proclaiming  faith  past  tempest  to  destroy, 

With  silent  confidence  of  conscious  might! 

23 


Glad  of  the  blue  sky,  knowing  nor  wind  nor  rain 

Can  do  your  large  indifference  despite, 
Nor  lightning  mar  your  tolerant  disdain! 

The  fanfare  of  the  trumpets  of  the  sea 

Assaults  the  air  with  jubilant  foray; 
The  intolerable  exigence  of  glee 

Shouts  to  the  sun  and  leaps  in  radiant  spray; 
The  laughter  of  the  breakers  on  the  shore 

Shakes  like  the  mirth  of  Titans  heard  at  play, 
With  thunders  of  tumultuous  uproar. 

Playmate  of  terrors!     Intimate  of  Doom! 

Fellow  of  Fate  and  Death !    Exultant  Sea ! 
Thou  strong  companion  of  the  Sun,  make  room ! 

Let  me  make  one  with  you,  rough  comrade  Sea! 
Sea  of  the  boisterous  sport  of  wind  and  spray! 

Sea  of  the  lion  mirth!    Sonorous  Sea! 
I  hear  thy  shout,  I  know  what  thou  wouldst  say. 

Dauntless,  triumphant,  reckless  of  alarms, 

O  Queen  that  laughest  Time  and  Fear  to  scorn ! 

Death,  like  a  bridegroom,  tosses  in  thine  arms. 
The  rapture  of  your  fellowship  is  borne 

Like  music  on  the  wind.     I  hear  the  blare, 
The  calling  of  the  undesisting  horn, 

And  tremors  as  of  trumpets  on  the  air. 
24 


Sea-Captain  of  whose  keels  the  Sea  is  fain, 
Death,  Master  of  a  thousand  ships,  each  prow 

That  sets  against  the  thunders  of  the  main 
Is  lyric  with  thy  mirth.     I  know  thee  now, 

O  Death,  I  shout  back  to  thy  hearty  hail, 
Thou  of  the  great  heart  and  cavernous  brow, 

Strong  Seaman  at  whose  look  the  north  winds  quail. 

Poet,  thou  hast  adventured  in  the  roar 
Of  mighty  seas  with  one  that  never  failed 

To  make  the  havens  of  the  further  shore. 
Beyond  that  vaster  Ocean  thou  hast  sailed 

What  old  immortal  world  of  beauty  lies ! 
What  land  where  Light  for  matter  has  prevailed! 

What  strange  Atlantid  dream  of  Paradise! 

Down  what  dim  bank  of  violets  did  he  come, 
The  mild  historian  of  the  Sudbury  Inn, 

Welcoming  thee  to  that  long-wished-for  home? 
What  talk  of  comrades  old  didst  thou  begin? 

What  dear  inquiry  lingered  on  his  tongue 
Of  the  Sicilian,  ere  he  led  thee  in 

To  the  eternal  company  of  Song? 

There  thy  co-laborers  and  high  compeers 
Hailed  thee  as  courtly  hosts  some  noble  guest, — 

Poe,  disengloomed  with  the  celestial  years, 
Calm  Bryant,  Emerson  of  the  antique  zest 

25 


And  modern  vision,  Lowell  all  a-bloom 

At  last,  unwintered  of  his  mind's  unrest, 
And  Whitman,  with  the  old  superb  aplomb. 

Not  far  from  these  Lanier,  deplored  so  oft 
From  Georgian  live-oaks  to  Acadian  firs, 

Walks  with  his  friend  as  once  at  Cedarcroft. 
And  many  more  I  see  of  speech  diverse; 

From  whom  a  band  aloof  and  separate, 
Landor  and  Meleager  in  converse 

And  lonely  Collins  for  thy  greeting  wait. 

But  who  is  this  that  from  the  mightier  shades 
Emerges,  seeing  whose  sacred  laureate  hair 

Thou  startest  forward  trembling  through  the  glades, 
Advancing  upturned  palms  of  filial  prayer? 

Long  hast  thou  served  him;  now,  of  lineament 
Not  stern  but  strenuous  still,  thy  pious  care 

He  comes  to  guerdon.    Art  thou  not  content? 

Forbear,  O  Muse,  to  sing  his  deeper  bliss, 
What  tenderer  meetings,  what  more  secret  joys! 

Lift  not  the  veil  of  heavenly  privacies ! 
Suffice  it  that  nought  unfulfilled  alloys 

The  pure  gold  of  the  rapture  of  his  rest, 

Save  that  some  linger  where  the  jarring  noise 

Of  earth  afflicts,  whom  living  he  caressed. 

26 


His  feet  are  in  thy  courts,  O  Lord;  his  ways 

Are  in  the  City  of  the  Living  God. 
Beside  the  eternal  sources  of  the  days 

He   dwells,  his   thoughts   with   timeless    lightings 

shod; 
His  hours  are  exaltations  and  desires, 

The  soul  itself  its  only  period 
And  life  unmeasured  save  as  it  aspires. 

Time,  like  a  wind,  blows  through  the  lyric  leaves 
Above  his  head,  and  from  the  shaken  boughs 

^Eonian  music  falls;  but  he  receives 
Its  endless  changes  in  alert  repose, 

Nor  drifts  unconscious  as  a  dead  leaf  blown 
On  with  the  wind  and  senseless  that  it  blows, 

But   hears   the   chords   like   armies   marching  on. 

About  his  path  the  tall  swift  angels  are, 
Whose  motion  is  like  music  but  more  sweet; 

The  centuries  for  him  their  gates  unbar; 
He  hears  the  stars  their  Glorias  repeat; 

And  in  high  moments  when  the  fervid  soul 
Burns  white  with  love,  lo!  on  his  gaze  replete 

The  Vision  of  the  Godhead  shall  unroll — 

Trine  within  trine,  inextricably  One, 

Distinct,  innumerable,  inseparate, 
And  never  ending  what  was  ne'er  begun, 
27 


Within  Himself  his  Freedom  and  his  Fate, 
All  dreams,  all  harmonies,  all  Forms  of  light 

In  his  Infinity  intrinsecate, — 
Until  the  soul  no  more  can  bear  the  sight. 

Oh,  secret,  taciturn,  disdainful  Death! 

Knowing  all  this,  why  hast  thou  held  thy  peace? 
Master  of  Silence,  thou  wilt  waste  no  breath 

On  weaklings,  nor  to  stiffen  nerveless  knees 
Deny  strong  men  the  conquest  of  one  qualm; — 

And  they,  thy  dauntless  comrades,  are  at  ease 
And  need  no  speech  and  greet  thee  calm  for  calm. 

Cast  them  adrift  in  wastes  of  ageless  Night, 
Or  bid  them  follow  into  Hell,  they  dare; 

So  are  they  worthy  of  their  thrones  of  light, 
O  that  great,  tranquil  rapture  they  shall  share ! 

That  life  compact  of  adamantine  fire! 
My  soul  goes  out  across  the  eastern  air 

To  that  far  country  with  a  wild  desire!     .     .    . 

But  still  the  marshes  haunt  me ;  still  my  thought 

Returns  upon  their  silence,  there  to  brood 
Till  the  significance  of  earth  is  brought 
Back  to  my  heart,  and  in  a  sturdier  mood 
I  turn  my  eyes  toward  the  distance  dim, 

And  in  the  purple  far  infinitude 
Watch  the  white  ships  sink  under  the  sea-rim; 


Some  bound  for  Flemish  ports  or  Genovese, 
Some  for  Bermuda  bound,  or  Baltimore; 

Others,  perchance,  for  further  Orient  seas, 
Sumatra  and  the  straits  of  Singapore, 

Or  antique  cities  of  remote  Cathay, 
Or  past  Gibraltar  and  the  Libyan  shore 

Through  Bab-el  mandeb  eastward  to  Bombay; 

And  one  shall  signal  flaming  Teneriffe, 
And  the  Great  Captive's  ocean-prison  speak, 

Then  on  beyond  the  demon-haunted  cliff, 
By  Madagascar's  palms  and  Mozambique. 

Till  in  some  sudden  tropic  dawn  afar 
The  Sultan  sees  the  colors  at  her  peak 

Salute  the  minarets  of  Zanzibar. 

KINGSCROFT,   Windsor,  Nova  Scotia,  September,  1892. 


A   VISION   OF    PARNASSUS 


TO    MIRIAM 

"  A  Vision  of  Parnassus  "  was  originally  published  as  the 
Dedication  to  Launcelot  and  Guenevere,  but  on  second  thought 
1  have  felt  that  it  was  a  not  entirely  congruous  part  of  a 
series  of  dramatic  poems.  I  have  therefore  transferred  it  to 
this  volume.  RICHARD  HOVEY. 

(The  proposed  volume  was  abandoned  for  other  plans.  So 
many  have  questioned  whether  this  poem  was  purely  meta 
phorical  or  partly  personal  that  it  seems  best  to  state  here 
that  it  was  addressed  to  a  beautiful  personality  of  his  early 
acquaintance. ) 

GOD,  in  whose  being  only  we  become 
And  in  whose  wisdom  only  we  grow  wise, 

Eternal  Love!  first  unto  Thee  I  come, 
First  unto  Thee  I  lift  adoring  eyes. 

Before  Thy  face  the  prophet's  speech  is  air, 
In  songs  of  praise  the  only  music  lies, 

The  only  wisdom  in  the  lips  of  prayer. 

To  Thee,  Allfather,  come  I,  as  a  son 
Who  goes  upon  his  father's  business 

In  distant  lands,  might  ask  a  benison 
Upon  his  errand.    Be  Thou  nigh  to  bless 

And  let  Thy  sweetness  in  my  heart  abound, 
Else  all  my  labor  is  a  weariness 

And  all  my  singing  but  an  empty  sound. 

30 


And  thou,  divine  Apollo,  hear  my  cry, 
Thou  brightness  of  the  glory  of  the  Lord! 

Thou  art  the  wings  with  which  my  song  must  fly, 
The  breathing  of  its  lips  must  be  thy  word, 

Its  vision  be  the  clearness  of  thy  seeing, 
If  in  that  heaven  for  which  its  thought  has  soared, 

It  would  at  last  serenely  have  its  being. 

Master  of  poets,  hear  me  as  I  call! 

Circumfluent  air  wherethrough  I  take  my  flight, 
Withdraw  thou  not  from  me  nor  let  me  fall, 

Failing  thy  buoyance,  into  the  void  night ! 
Upbear  me  on  thy  bosom  as  a  bird! 

Apollo!  lord  of  beauty  and  of  light! 
Thee  I  invoke!    Oh,  let  my  cry  be  heard! 

For  I  at  least  still  worship  at  thy  shrine, 
Though  the  blind  world  forgets  thee ;  I  at  least 

Have  given  thee  thought  for  meat  and  love  for  wine, 
Although  thy  temples  stand  without  a  priest 

And  no  one  seeks  the  sweet  Pierian  springs, 
While  still  Astarte  hold  her  horrid  feast 

And  Mammon's  altars  smoke  with  offerings. 

But  I  have  stood  upon  thy  holy  hill, 
And  seen  thy  sacred  laurel-blossoms  blow, — 

I  found  me  in  a  glen  beside  a  rill 
Of  stainless  waters  whose  pellucid  flow 

31 


Sang  not  as  other  fountains,  but  with  clear 

Articulate  murmurs  spake,  distinct  and  low, 
A  secret  teaching  to  my  wondering  ear. 

Hard  by  the  twin  peaks  of  the  mountain  soared 
Like  aspirations  rising  from  the  wood 

To  where  the  blue  Greek  heaven  lay  all  outpoured, 
A  living  lake  of  liquid  plenitude, 

And  clouds  were  wrapped  about  the  crest  of  one, 
But  clear  against  the  sky  the  other  stood, 

Sharply  defined  and  violet  with  the  sun. 

And  longer  had  I  listened  to  the  lore 

Of  that  strange  stream,  but  that  there  reached  my 

ear 
A  woeful  moan  that  made  my  heart  ache  sore, 

And,  looking  up,  I  saw  a  lady  near 
Who  fled  aghast  as  one  in  mortal  dread, 

With  drawn  face  rigid  with  a  nameless  fear, 
And  still  her  garments  tripped  her  as  she  fled. 

And  hard  upon  her  heels  a  horrid  hound, 
With  bloody  jowl  and  mire  upon  his  coat, 

Came  baying  till  he  made  the  wood   resound. 
There  was  a  brazen  collar  on  his  throat, 

With  intricate  antique  deviced  chased, 
And  on  that  white-limbed  lady  did  he  gloat 

With  hungry  eyes,  in  his  malignant  haste. 

32 


And  I,  all  sudden  starting  to  my  feet, 
Weaponless  as  I  was,  would  have  pursued 

That  savage  beast  to  save  that  lady  sweet — 
But  in  my  path  a  gentle  stranger  stood 

With  tranquil  eyes  that  forced  my  feet  to  stay, 
And,  as  I  marvelled,  deep  within  the  wood 

The  noise  of  that  fell  hunting  died  away. 

"  Not  with  the  arm  of  flesh,"  the  shade  began, 
For  not  among  the  living  was  that  stranger, 

"  Mayst  thou  attack  the  beast.     No  courage  can 
Avail  against  his  cruel  strength.    The  danger 

By  other  weapons  must  be  combated. 
Till  they  are  forged,  he  must  remain  a  ranger, 

To  make  this  sacred  wood  a  place  of  dread. 

"  Come  with  me  up  the  hill  a  little  space 
And  I  will  speak  more  of  these  mysteries." 

With  that  toward  the  peak  he  turned  his  face 
And  we  together  passed  among  the  trees, 

And  as  I  went,  still  wondering,  at  his  side, 
I  said  to  him,  becoming  more  at  ease, 

"  Who  art  thou,  gentle  spirit  ?  "    And  he  replied, 

"  I  sang  of  that  sad  prince  whose  mother's  guile 
Made  the  whole  world  a  prison  for  his  heart, 

And  of  the  meek  magician  of  the  isle ; 
And  many  other  matters  craved  my  art, 

33 


When  Raleigh  quested  for  the  golden  shore." 

At  this,  all  suddenly  I  gave  a  start 
And  broke  out  "  Master  " — and  could  say  no  more. 

By  this  we  came  into  an  open  place 
That  made  a  little  hollow  in  the  hill; 

And  here  I  saw,  as  I  upraised  my  face, 
That  which  my  spirit  with  such  awe  did  fill 

As  the  young  priest  might  feel  before  the  shrine, 
First  time  he  speaks  the  words  at  whose  low  thrill 

God  smites  himself  into  the  bread  and  wine. 

For  there  was  Dante,  all  his  passionate  face 
Made  glorious  with  that  peace  he  long  did  seek. 

Beside   him  ^Eschylus  kept  his  Jove-like   pace. 
A  little  further  off  the  wrinkled  cheek 

Of  ancient  Homer  brushed  almost  the  curled 
Gold  locks  of  David — Israelite  and  Greek, 

Twin  fountains  of  the  music  of  the  world ! 

And  yet  one  more  there  was  who  toward  my  guide 
Came  smiling  like  the  younger  of  two  brothers — 

The  singer  of  that  scholar  who  allied 
The  Devil  to  him  and  beheld  the  Mothers. 

And  to  me,  too,  he  turned  him  courteously. 
In  welcome,  and  he  went  on  to  the  others, 

Who  gave  me  greeting  with  sweet  gravity. 

34 


Then  he  who  first  encountered  me,  defeating 
My  rash  speed,  spoke  with  brief  straightforward 
ness 

And  told  them  of  the  manner  of  our  meeting, 
And  of  the  lady  who  was  in  such  stress. 

And  then  he  laid  his  hand  upon  my  hair — 
And   oh,  the  gentleness   of  that  caress! — 

Saying  to  me,  "And  thou  didst  find  her  fair! 

"  This  is  that  lady  whom  I  throned  so  high ! 

Alas,  that  she  should  be  brought  down  so  low ! 
Each  morning  from  that  horror  she  must  fly, 

Each  morning  be  devoured  by  that  fell  foe; 
Yet  ever  when  the  new  day  quickeneth, 

Again  she  must  renew  her  ancient  woe — 
Perpetual  struggle  and  perpetual  death! 

"  If  thou  wilt  be  her  knight,  set  forth  with  care, 
For  thou  shalt  find  a  foe  in  every  tree, 

To  cast  a  venomed  arrow  unaware. 
But  if  thou  lovest  and  art  brave,  then  be 

Regardless  of  the  shafts  against  thee  hurled — 
Set  free  the  lady  and  thou  shalt  set  free 

Thyself  as  well  and  with  thyself  the  world. 

"  Not  as  a  warrior  undertake  this  vow, 
But  in  the  sacred  vestments  of  a  priest. 

35 


Song  is  more  perilous  than  steel.  '  Seek  thou 
Until  the  Song-God's  temple-doors  thou  seest 

And  from  the  altar  take  his  sword.    Then  follow 
Thy  quest  and  do  thy  battle  with  the  beast, 

Panoplied  in  the  armor  of  Apollo." 

Then,  as  one  who  has  climbed  a  mountain  peak, 
Sees  at  first  glance  the  outspread  world  upstart, 

Valley  and  lake  and  hill,  but  does  not  seek 
As  yet  so  isolate  each  several  part, 

A-gaze  in  contemplation  of  the  whole, 
So  all  my  song  came  rushing  on  my  heart 

And  as  a  flame  joy  flashed  up  in  my  soul. 

And  as  a  flame  that  flashes  and  goes  out, 
So  all  that  rapture  quickly  sank  and  died, 

For  that  great  theme  benumbed  me  with  misdoubt 
If  I,  in  truth,  were  strong  enough  to  guide 

The  chariot  of  so  intricate  a  rhyme. 
"  Alas,  this  quest  is  not  for  me,"  I  sighed. 

"  Master,  why  point  me  where  I  cannot  climb  ? 

"The  tragic  laurel  is  not  for  my  head — 
A  simple  singer,  artless  and  unwise." 

Thereat  the  Tuscan  turned  to  me  and  said 
Gravely,  all  Beatrice  in  his  eyes, 

"And  art  thou  worthy,  then,  of  Miriam?" 
And  I  was  dumb  a  moment  for  surprise 

And  my  heart  said,  "Unworthy,  indeed,  I  am." 

36 


But  shame,  as  for  a  creaven  thought,  gave  place 
To  high  resolve  with  awesome  wonderment, 

And  "  I  will  sing,"  I  said,  and,  full  of  grace, 
Those  spirits  smiled  on  me  as  well  content. 

Therewith  they  took  leave  of  that  greenery, 
And  with  them  through  the  glades  I  also  went — 

I  was  the  seventh  of  that  company. 

0  thou  in  whom  all  womanhood  is  mine! 
O  thou  in  whom  I  praise  all  womanhood ! 

Miriam,  the  honor  of  my  song  is  thine. 

It  was  the  sweet  sound  of  thy  name  subdued 
My  lips  to  breathe  their  too  adventurous  theme. 

0  fair  enwomaning  of  the  Sweet  and  Good ! 
A  sweetest  thought  to  me  in  God's  long  dream! 

1  cannot  praise  thee  rightly  as  I  ought, 
Nor  tell  by  what  high  miracle  it  is 

That  thou,  who  art  so  marvellously  wrought, 
Shouldst  be  the  spirit  that  should  meet  and  kiss 

My  spirit  in  this  bond  of  soul  and  sense 
From  which  begin  all  other  unities 

Of  wider  scope  but  impact  less  intense. 

I  praise  in  thee  all  force,  in  thee  all  form, 

For  these  in  thee  may  best  be  understood; 
I  praise  all  life,  because  thy  cheek  is  warm; 

1  praise  all  will,  because  thy  will  is  good; 

37 


I  praise  in  thee  my  country  and  my  kin; 

In  thee  the  otherness  of  womanhood ; 
In  thee  all  hearts  that  Love  is  welcome  in. 

The  things  that  lie  without  us,  are  but  curled 
And  unsubstantial  smoke- wreaths  to  the  sight; 

Thou  art  the  point  at  which  I  touch  the  world, 
The  point  thou  touchest,  I— thus  benedight! 

This  is  the  mystery  of  the  law  by  which 
The  ordered  spirit-multitudes  unite 

In  diapasons  manifold  and  rich. 

So  lies  the  world  in  little  in  thy  heart, 
And  so  I  praise  and  love  all  things  in  thee. 

Yet  chiefly  for  thine  own  sweet  self,  my  art 
Strives  to  build  up  its  tower  of  harmony. 

Chiefly  'for  thy  sweet  self  I  pour  my  life 
As  myrrh  and  spikenard  on  thy  head,  to  be 

A  chrism  to  do  thee  honor,  Queen  and  Wife. 

For  all  the  songs  that  all  the  poets  sing 
Were  not  too  great  an  honor  for  thy  worth, 

Seeing  thou  art  the  source  from  which  songs  spring. 
And  all  the  crowns  and  kingdoms  of  the  earth, 

Glory  of  Bourbon  and  renown  of  Guelph, 
Would  only  serve  thy  royalty  for  mirth, 

Seeing  thou  art  crowned  more  highly,  being  thyself. 

38 


0  sweet  as  only  vigor  can  be  sweet ! 

O    strong    as    only    loveliness    is    strong! 

1  come  before  thee  with  unsandaled  feet, 

As   one   escaping  from  the   chaffering  throng 
Draws  nigh  an  altar,  and  with  bended  knee 

Devote  myself,  the  singer  to  the  song, 
And   song   and   singer   each   alike   to  thee. 


39 


II 


SHORT    BEACH 

OH,  the  salt  wind  in  my  nostrils ! 

And   the   white   sail   in   the   creek! 
And    the   blue    beyond    the   marshes! 

And  the  flag  at  the  peak! 

My  soul  lifts  to  the  bugles 

Of  a  far  cry   on  the  breeze — 
The  cry  of  my   storm-kin  calling 

Overseas,  overseas ! 

Blow,  horns  of  the  old  sea-rapture! 

When    your   call   comes    from   afar. 
I    would    rise    from    the    grave    to    reach    you 

Where  the  sea-dooms  are ! 

July,  1898. 


THE   GYPSY 

I  FOUND  her  in  a  gypsy  camp 
Between  the  night  and  morning. 

I  was  a  roving,  loving  scamp, 
She  was  a  child  of  morning. 

She  had  the  wood-dew  in  her  hair, 
The  road-dust  on  her  feet, 

The   sting  and  thrill  of  mountain  air 
Made    all    her    motion    sweet. 

43 


She  moved  with  something  like  the  grace 

Of  migratory  birds. 
The  wander-longing  in  her  face 

Was  like  forgotten  words. 

THE    ORIENT 

A     FRAGMENT 

*    *    *    THE  sleet  of  battle  and  the  hurricane  of 

drums 

Blight  for  a  while  the  calm  chrysanthemums, 
To  clear  the  air 

For  the  new  April  that  engenders  there. 
But  though  her  strenuous  to-morrow 
Get  from  the  West  a  heritage  of  sorrow, 
Shall  not  the  spirit  of  Japan 
Transmute  the  urge,  the  bitterness,  the  moan, 
To  some  great  bloom  of  beauty  yet  unknown 
To  meet  the  vision  of  the  coming  man? 

India,  a   Sabine  bride, 

About  the  hearthstone  of  her  ravisher 

Sets  up  her  household  gods;  and  at  her  side 

His  children  learn  of  her. 

And   surely  in  her  bosom,  too,  there  lies 

A  mystery  unborn. 

Ay,   surely,   an   apocalyptic  morn, 

In  Vishnu-land  an  avatar  shall  rise. 

44 


And  the  West  is   with  child  of  the   East  and  the 

travail  is  long, 
A  travail  of  song. 
And  the  East  is  with  child  of  the  West  and  the 

travail  is  sore, 
A  travail  of  war.  *  *  * 

May,  1896. 


A    STEPHANE    MALLARME 

A  FRAGMENT 

ON  battlemented   Morningside 

The  gold  alembic  days  distil, 

The  violet  rocks  remember  yet 

The  winter  winds  that  moaned  and  sighed. 

The  grasses  and  the  leaves  are  still. 


DISCOVERY 

A    FRAGMENT 

ACT   III 

SCENE. — Mid-Ocean,  on  board  the  Santa  Maria. 
COLUMBUS,  NINO,  ROLDAN,  MATHEOS,  near 
the  man  at  the  wheel.  About  the  deck 'and  in  the 
forecastle  Sailors,  among  them  GIACOMO,  the 

45 


boatswain,  TALLARTE,   SEBASTIAN  and  WIL 
LIAM  IRES. 

COLUMBUS. 

Steersman,  hold  straight  into  the  west. 

NINO. 

The  birds 
Fly  southward,  sir. 

COLUMBUS. 

They  do. 

NINO. 
They  seem  land-birds,  sir. 

COLUMBUS. 

And  seek  the  land.    I  think  it  probable 
Some  island  lies  there,  Nino. 

NINO. 

Your  pardon,  sir, 

But  why  hold  course  to  westward  if  the  land 
Be  in  the  south  ? 

COLUMBUS. 

The  land  is  in  the  west. 
Haphazard  islets  in  the  middle  sea  , 
May  rise  leagues  from  the  mainland.     Not  for  such 
Have  we  outsailed  the  Carthaginian  dream 
And  pierced  the  sea  of  glooms.     Steersman,  I  say, 
Hold  straight  into  the  west. 

46 


Enter  DE  ARANA  and  some  of  the  royal  staff. 
COLUMBUS  goes  to  meet  them. 

MATHEOS. 

What  say  you,  Roldan? 
Does  he  not  carry  it  right  hidalgo-like, 
Our  paper  grandee,  Admiral  of  the  clouds, 
And  viceroy  of  the  moon? 

ROLDAN. 

We  whom  he  promised  gold,  this  Genovese, 
We  shall  go  back  to  beg  for  copper  sous 
About  the  streets  of  Seville. 

NINO. 

Back,  my  masters! 

Now,  by  St.  James,  I  would  that  day  were  here, 
For  I  am  fearsome  it  will  never  dawn. 

ROLDAN. 

What  mean  you? 

NINO. 

Shall  we  evermore  see  Spain  again? 
I  have  served  twenty  captains  in  my  life, 
And  but  one  madman.  v  Have  ye  ne'er  heard  tales 
Of  phantom  ships  that  seek  to  make  a  port 
And  fail  forever?  v 

MATHEOS. 

We  see  Spain  again; 
The  order's  ta'en  for  that. 

47 


ROLDAN. 

Be  still!     The  Joker  1 

NINO. 

Sirs,  what's  afoot? 

MATHEOS. 

Which  do  you  set  the  higher, 
Life  and  Castile  or  this  Italian  Boaster? 

NINO. 

I  ne'er  feared  death  in  a  fair  fight,  my  mates, 
But  who  will  pour  his  life  out  for  a  whim 
Or  strive  with  the  Devil  knows  what!     Have  you 

seen  naught 
O'  nights  upon  your  watch,  strange  and  unnatural? 

MATHEOS. 
What,  you  have  seen  it,  too? 

NINO. 
And  you  have  seen  it? 

ROLDAN. 

The  needle? 

NINO. 

Ay,  it  points  no  longer  north 

MATHEOS. 

Or  else  the  Pole-star  wavers  from  its  place; 

NINO. 

But  if  the  eternal  sky  is  still  secure 
48 


Then  there's  some  hellish  hocus-pocus  here 

That  makes  the  iron  veer  toward  the  west 

As  if  some  magnet  greater  than  the  Pole 

Lay  yonder  where  we  steer;  that  Mount  Magnetic 

That  like  the  Kraken  of  the  North  devours 

The  ocean  leagues  like  grass,  and  which  men  say 

Sucks  out  the  rivets  of  the  stoutest  ships 

Letting  them  melt  into  their  elements 

Like  frostwork  in  the  sun. 

ROLDAN. 

Be  still,  I  say; 
Here  comes  the  Genovese! 

MATHEOS. 

More  words  with  you. 

(They    draw    apart;    COLUMBUS    and    DE 
ARANA  on  the  port  side.) 

COLUMBUS. 
And  still  holds  fair,  you  see. 

DE   ARANA. 

True,  sir,  and  yet 
Uneasily  I  shift  my  thought  about 
With  something,  I  confess,  of  awe, — well,  fear, 
Fear,  if  you  will! 

COLUMBUS. 

You  say  it,  De  Arana, 
Not  I. 

49 


DE   ARANA. 

How  far  the  loneliness  recedes ! 
The  weight  o'  the  stillness  stifles ! 

COLUMBUS. 

We  are  the  first 

Except  the  angels  who  have  looked  upon 
The  silence  of  this  sea — and  yet  behold 
How  beautiful  it  is !     Ocean  and  sky 
Tremble  with  heat  and  color;  each  light  vapour 
Encrimsons  with  the  sun,  and  the  clear  deeps 
Let  the  light  plunge  down  fathoms  undersea, 
Where  the  strange  embryo  life  of  Ocean  moves 
As  on  the  first  day  when  the  spirit  of  God 
Was  brooding  on  the  waters.     Oh,  it  is  good 
To  know  the  secrets  of  this  world !    And  I 
Believe,  Arana,  nay  I  know,  the  day 
Nears  when  God's  wisdom  shall  reveal  to  us 
What  no  man  yet  has  seen  or  dreamed  on  earth, 
Scholar  or  seaman.     I  seem  to  feel  already 
The  far-off  power  of  equatorial  suns 
And  dim  foretokens  of  the  austral  sky. 
{He  retires,  and  seeks  the  lookout.) 

DE   ARANA. 

He   dreams,   he    dreams — even   as   he    dreamed    in 

Spain, 
While  the  court  mocked  and  whispered.    Now  almost 

SO 


I  do  believe  him,  who  so  mightily 
Believes  himself.     I  am  his  kinsman — half — 
Through  Beatrix !     If  I  break  faith  with  Pinzon, 
Who  is  but  my  countryman,  and  rip  the  mask 
From  this  revolt  that  threats  to  make  this  night 
An  end  of  all  his  dreams! 

I  have  good  will  to  it.     Break  faith  with  Pinzon? 
What's  that  but  keep  faith  with  the  Genovese? 
Bah,  I  dream,  too!     The  crews  are  as  one  man 
And  will  not  venture  farther.    Who  is  he 
That  can  compel  them?    Though  the  receding  West 
Held  Edens  for  his  Indies,  Founts  of  youth 
And  trees  of  life  for  gems  and  mines  of  gold, 
He  stands  alone.     Well,  well!     When  all  is  said, 
I  shall  be  glad,  for  one,  to  be  in  Spain. 
Giacomo ! 

GIACOMO. 
(Approaching.)     Ay,  sir. 

DE   ARANA. 

Yet  no  land? 


. 


GIACOMO. 

Nor  would  be 

we  sailed  on  for  ever. 

DE   ARANA. 

Is  't  to-night? 
5? 


GIACOMO. 

Ay,  sir. 

DE   ARANA. 

The   signal? 

GIACOMO. 

The  boatswain's  whistle,  sir.  The  Pinta  and  the 
Nina  run  along  side  at  nightfall,  as  soon  as  the 
commander  goes  below  for  his  devotion. 

SANCHEZ. 

(Who  has  drawn  near  from  behind.}  Ay,  his 
Angelus — or  his  Diabolus,  for  I  am  sure  the  devil 
is  in  this  wind  that  blows  always  with  his  desires. 

GIACOMO. 

You  say  well,  sir.  We  are  all  agreed  there  is 
sorcery  in  't. 

SANCHEZ. 

Or  else  there  blow  no  winds  for  Spain  in  these 
waters. 

DE   ARANA. 

Well,  well!— But  when  he  is  saying  his  prayers, 
be  they  to  angel  or  devil,  what  then? 

GIACOMO. 

Why,  sir,  then  I  pipe  all  hands  on  deck,  and  be 
fore  Windbags  knows  what's  up,  the  Captains  Pin- 
zon  and  their  crews  have  boarded  us. 

52 


SANCHEZ. 

It  is  near  nightfall  now. 

GIACOMO. 

Ay,  sir,  and  the  dark  comes  on  here  like  the  blow 
ing  out  of  a  light  in  a  cellar. 

DE   ARANA. 

Or  a  tomb.  The  sun  sets,  and  Night  stalks  over 
the  sea  in  seven  league  boots.  -.< 

GIACOMO. 
We  come  tco  near  her  dwelling  place. 

WILLIAM     IRES. 

(In  a  group  of  sailors  on  the  starboard  side.) 
Eh,  mates,  but  I'm  of  another  mind.  Faith,  I  think 
there's  land  ahead,  but  we've  passed  it.  Didn't  the 
blessed  St.  Brandon  sail  into  the  west  and  discover 
a  land  so  beautiful  that  he  never  came  back  again? 
And  by  the  same  token  he  was  an  Irishman. 

TALLARTE. 

He  must  have  been.    That  is  a  very  Irish  story. 
IRES. 

That's  your  Saxon  envy,  Tallarte  de  Lajes.  It 
takes  more  than  a  Spanish  name  to  hide  an  English 
dunderhead. 

TALLARTE. 

If  your  old  bog-trotting  saint  discovered  some 
thing,  why  don't  anybody  know  it? 

S3 


IRES. 

Faith  he  kept  it  to  himself,  and  that's  the  chief 
pleasure  of  a  discovery. 

TALLARTE. 

Then  I  suppose  you're  for  going  ahead. 

IRES. 
I  am,  with  the  ship  turned  around — 

GIACOMO. 

(Who  has  joined  them.}  Who  talks  of  going 
ahead? 

TALLARTE. 

William   Ires. 

IRES. 

Who  told  you  so?  I  said  the  old  man  was  right 
in  looking  for  land,  for  an  Irishman  and  a  saint 
found  it  before  him.  And  that  I  will  maintain. 
But  I  am  in  favour  of  going  back,  and  listen  you 
all,  it  is  not  because  I  am  afraid — but  because  I  am 
tired  of  sailing  in  one  direction. 

GIACOMO. 

Corpo  di  Baccho,  there  may  be  land  ahead  worse 
than  the  sea — Listen,  I  have  just  overheard  the 
mates  saying  that  by  a  sure  computation  we  should 
come  in  eight  days  more  to  a  mountain  made  all 
of  loadstone. 

SEBASTIAN. 

Mother  of  God! 

54 


GtACOMO. 

And  as  soon  as  we  come  in  sight  of  this  moun 
tain,  the  bolts  will  all  fly  out  of  their  places  and 
the  ships  sink  into  the  sea. 

SAILORS. 

Oh,  Oh! 

SEBASTIAN. 

And  hark  ye,  Master  Giacomo,  I  have  been  told 
by  Moors,  to  whom  the  Devil  has  taught  much 
forbidden  knowledge,  that  in  these  parts  dwelleth 
the  great  bird,  Roc,  whose  wings  darken  the  sky, 
and  who  grasps  the  largest  frigate  with  his  mighty 
talons  as  easily  as  an  owl  clutches  a  field-mouse. 
Then  soaring  up  higher  than  the  topmost  clouds, 
tears  it  to  atoms  and  drops  them  in  the  sea. 

SAILORS. 

Oh,  oh! 

GIACOMO. 

Masters,  this  is  a  voyage  of  ill-fortune. 

SAILORS. 
Ay,  that  it  is. 

GIACOMO. 

First,  we  set  sail  on  a  Friday. 

A    SAILOR. 

No  good  ever  came  of  beginning  aught  o*  Friday. 

GIACOMO. 
Then  there  was  the  burning  mountain. 

55 


SEBASTIAN. 

Teneriffe ! 

GIACOMO. 

Ay,  Teneriffe,  terrific,  set  in  the  sea 
To  warn  the  impious  back  that  dare  to  press 
Beyond  the  bounds  of  things!     All  night  it  flared. 
Blazoning  on  the  clouds  tremendous  dooms, 
While  from  the  dark  we  watched  and  trembled,    Yet 
This  portent  braved,  and  the  long  cutting  through 
The  interminable  net  of  magic  herbs, 
That  strove  to  wind  us  in  a  woven  charm, 
Still  lured  by  signs  of  land  from  league  to  league 
Which  still  proved  lying,  till  the  very  stars 
Began  to  shift  in  heaven — (Four  bells.) 

COLUMBUS. 

Steersman,  hold  straight  into  the  West!  The 
Angelus. 

(Silence,  during  which  COLUMBUS  disappears 
into  the  cabin.  Here  and  there  a  sailor  drops  on 
his  knees,  crosses  himself  and  prays.  GIACOMO 
blows  his  whistle.  Sailors  silently  come  on  deck 
from  below — It  darkens — The  Pinta  and  Nina  have 
come  alongside.) 

Enter  over  the  taffrail,  PINZON,  and  sailors. 

PINZON. 

Seamen. 
******** 

56 


AMBROISE 


DID  you  see  the  joy  and  peace  of  God's  great  grace 

On  her  face  ! 
Did  you  hear  the  calm  still  sainthood  in  her  speak 

Through  her  cheek? 
Then  that  light  of  holy  knowledge,  clear  and  wise, 

In  her  eyes? 
—  Ere  her  face  was  hid  forever,  chaste  and  pale, 

By  the  veil, 
Ere  the  vision  and  the  glory  and  the  light 

Passed  from  sight, 

Loving,    trusting,    God's    own   work   that    God    had 
blessed, 

Full  of  rest. 

Yet  she  loved  me  in  a  fashion  as  I  think. 

Just   a   chink 
In  the  lattice  of  her  heart  let  through  one  day 

One  faint  ray 
Of  the  roselight  of  the  morning  of  love's  skies 

On  my  eyes, 
And  the  phantom  of  the  roselight  on  her  cheek 

Bade  me  speak. 
Had  I  spoken,  had  I  fanned  the  spark  aflame, 

Would  the  same 
Fate  have  fallen  on  us,  think  you,  now  we  dree 

—I  and  she? 

57 


But  I  stopped,  even  while  my  heart  leaped  with  the 
mirth 

Of   love's  birth, 

Stopped — I  thought  I  heard  God's  messenger  some 
where 

— In  the   air, 
Was  it? — bid  unbuskin  lest  my  footprints  wound 

Holy  ground. 
Sweet  wise  novice,  she  was  seeking  truer  bliss, 

Jesu's  kiss. 
I,  God's  consecrated  priest,  should  I  step  in, 

Thrust  between 
Her  white  soul  and  endless  love  my  poor  love-dower 

Of  an  hour! 

So  I  rushed  away  and  left  her  standing  there, 

Tall  and  fair 
As  the  angel  when  he  stood  by  Mary's  side, 

Awed,  and  cried 
" Ave,  plena  gratia!"  seeing  her  fair  sweet  face, 

Full  of  grace. 
Holy  Mother !  may  she  never  know  the  cause 

Made  me  pause 
So  abruptly!     Well,  love's  might-be  in  her  breast 

Slept  unguessed 
Save  by  me,  and  I — I  left  her,  tall  and  fair, 

Standing  there. 
Ah,  the  bitter  tears  I  shed  then,  all  alone, 

Falling  prone 

58 


Where  the  crucifix  within  the  shadow  hangs 

-God's  own  pangs, 
God's  death  shown  in  symbol,  His  heartache  divine 

Dwarfing  mine 
— At  the  priedieu  in  the  corner  of  the  room 

In  the  gloom. 
And  I  sobbed  myself  to  silence,  let  heart  break 

For  His  sake, 
As  His  Sacred  Heart  long  since  at  Calvary 

Broke  for  me. 

I  had  taught  her,  I  had  poured  into  her  ear 

All  the  dear 
Mystic  wonder  of  the  Love  above  all  love, — 

Tried  to  prove 
To  her  pure  faith,  where  no  need  of  proof  was,  how 

Man  should  now 
Give  the  love  back  as  completely  as  he  can, 

Being  but  man, 

Pain  for  pain  and  blood  for  blood  and  strife   for 
strife, 

— Life  for  life. 

How  her  face  flushed— then  grew  paler  than  blown 
mist, 

Rapt  and  whist! 
No  heat  like  the  iron  when  it  whitens! — so 

When  she'd  show 
That  death-pallor  in  her  cheek  while  eye-fires  blazed, 

Unamazed 
59 


I  had  seen  her  brave  the  Devil,  stood  he  where 

She  must  fare 
Past  him  in  the  sheer  high  pathway  that  she  trod 

Leads  to  God, — 
She  had  plunged  her  hand  with  Mutius  in  the  flame, 

Faced  the  shame 
And  the  suffering,  the  spitting  and  the  spear, 

Without  fear. 

So  I  wakened  in  her  heart  the  first  desire 

For  the  higher 
Life  of  utter  selflessness  and  sacrifice, 

Saw  arise 
A  great  innocent  fearlessness  that  made  me  fear, 

Saw  appear 
Golden  first-fruits  of  devotion  ripening 

In  the  spring 
Of  the  new  Christ-year  whose  Easter  bade  her  then 

Rise  again; 
And  I  loved  her  in  her  life  of  love  and  prayer 

Unaware. 

Unaware ! — ah,  but  now  the  clouds  withdrew 

And  I  knew ! — 
Felt  the  might  of  love  within  me  rend  my  heart, 

Great  drops  start 
From  my  body  as  I  agonized,  lying  there, 

In  despair! 
60 


And  I  called  upon  her,  murmured  her  sweet  name 

Should  God  claim 
This  of  all  things,  more  to  me  than  all  the  gold 

World  could  hold, 
More  than  fame,  power,  victory  in  the  dearest  strife 

— More  than  life ! 

More  than  God,  I  had  almost  said.     But  that  wild 
thought 

Stopped  me — brought 
Fear  upon  me — a  great  horror.     Then  light  broke 

Through    the    smoke 
Round  about  me  and  I  seemed  to  see  God's  plan 

Chastening  man. 
"  I,  the  Lord  thy  God,  a  jealous  God,  demand 

Heart  and  hand 
First  for  Me  to  labor,  first  love  Me,  .My  sway 

First  obey 

— Mine  your  firstlings,  Mine  your  first  fruits,  Mine 
your  best 

—Costliest ! " 

Was  not  she  my  dearest,  best — fit  sacrifice 

In  God's  eyes, 
Lest  perchance  her  image  leave  nought  in  my  heart 

For  His  part? 
Might  it  not  be  best  for  me  to  lose  her  here  ? 

She  so  near, 
61 


God  so  far  away  in  heaven,  how  should  I  not 

Have  forgot 
God, — seeing  the  wondrous  beauty  of  her  hair, 

And  the  fair 
Angel  face — and  then  the  deeps,  the  mysteries 

Of  her  eyes! 

If  I  give  her  now  to  God,  my  pearl  of  price, 

Greater  thrice 

In    my    eyes — ah,    heaven! — than    all    else    life    has 
brought, 

Shall  He  not, 
In  the  yonder-world  when  I  have  burned  away 

All  the  clay 
From  my  spirit  and  the  gold  alone  remains, 

Bless  my  pains 

With  this  gift  back  from  His  hands  that  took  to 
give? 

"Die  to  live," 

Was  His  word  of  old.     Dead  love  may,  like  dead 
men, 

Rise  again, — 

Not  to  earth-life  here,  but  at  the  Day  of  Days 

In  the  place 
Of  God's  dwelling,  where  reflections  of  the  Trine 

Union  shine 
Through  innumerable  unions,  caught  and  bound 

In  one  round 
62 


Up  to  Him  and  in  Him  by  a  mystery  strange 

That  shall  change 
All  the  myrrh  of  sorrow  offered  at  His  shrine 

Into  Wine. 
Shall  God  scorn  a  broken  heart?     Shall  He  despise 

Sacrifice  ? 

Then  I  looked  up  at  the  crucifix  above — 

God's  great  love 
Broke  upon  me  like  a  torrent  whirling  down 

Tower  and  town 
In  its  pathway, — and  the  mystery  grew  more  clear 

Symboled  there. 

What  was  man's  poor  love  in  's  farthest  weariest 
reach, 

— Loftiest  niche 
Man  could  statue  in  his  heart's  cathedral, — height 

Of  heart's  flight,— 
To  God's  love  before  the  ages  had  begun 

For  His  Son! 

Holier   than   the   holiest   love   that   e'er   the    earth 

Brought  to  birth, 
Mary's  for  the  Christ-child,  burning  brighter  far 

Than  the  star 
Led  the  wise  men — She  our  sea-star,  beaconing, 

So  to  bring 
Us  too  with  her  to  the  Christ — she,  who  became 

Heaven's  Dame! — 

63 


Holier  still  and  higher  and  swifter  Thine, 

Love  Divine, 
Outsoars  Mary's  even,  far  as  hers  outsoars 

Height  of  ours. 

Yet  God  gave  His  Son — O  mystery  that  sleeps 

In  God's  deeps ! — 
Let  His  infinite  Love  be  tortured — pierced  and  torn — • 

Turned  to  scorn 
For  our  cake — ay,  even  for  this  poor  half-divine 

Love   of  mine. 
Now  He  asks  me,  shall  I  shrink  to  give  Him  thence 

Recompense  ? 
How  the  mist  about  me  at  this  break  of  day 

Cleared  away 
And  God's  meaning  slowly,  like  the  morning,  stole 

On  my  soul! 

Yield  you,  bend  your  will  to  His  will ;  who  obeys, 

Gets  God's  grace. 
Though  the  Devil's  pride  within  you  still  impel 

To  rebel, 
Keeping  back  the  day  of  God's  fulfilment  here, 

Do  not  fear, — 
Vanquished  is  victorious ;  freedom's  self-defeat 

Being  complete, 
Then  the  purpose  of  God's  lesson  is  made  known, 

Hell's  o'erthrown, 

64 


And  submission  lifts  to  higher  liberty — 
Love  makes  free. 

If  you  yield  you  as  the  helpless  knife  obeys 

Him  that  slays — 
As  the  senseless  waters  tumble  down  the  hill, 

Will  or  nill, 
That's  the  Stoic,  that  benumbs  you,  makes  you  slave, 

As  Christ  gave 
Freedom,  life  for  you,  so  give  you  with  good  will, 

Then  you  fill 
God's  full  cup  of  sacrifice  to  brim,  and  so 

Come  to  know 
God's  way,  act  it,  be  it,  so  with  God  to  be, 

As  God,  free, — 

Freedom,  lost  once,  freely  yielded  at  God's  feet, 

Now  more  sweet, 
Found  again  at  God's  feet,  past  the  ebb  and  flow, 

In  Heaven's  glow. 
See,  God  striving  with  me,  I  would  not  unclasp 

My  heart's  grasp 

Till     He     blessed     me — then     I     rose     and     stole 
away.     .    .    . 

The  next  day 
Made  excuses — certain  matters  of  import — 

Well,  in  short, 
That's  the  last  I  saw  of  her  till  twelve  hours  since. 

I  did  wince 

65 


In  the  church  there.     How  heart's  embers  burst  to 
flame! 

But  I  came 
Back  for  that, — that  last  look.  lie,  missa  est.    .    .     . 

What  a   rest 
In  the  stars!     The  lazy  wind  in  the  close  beneath 

Seems  to  breathe 
A   great  quiet.     That's   like   our  love,   sister — ours, 

Peace    embowers, 
Calm   and  tender.     See  the  moonlight's   elfish  play 

On   the   bay.     .     .     . 
What  a  heavy  scent  of  honeysuckle !     ....     So  ! 

Let  us  go. 


A     LYRIC 

SUNSHINE  of  yellow  hair 

And  still  white  trust, 

What  doest  thou  in  this  lair 

Of  death  and  dust? 

The  halls  where  I  abide 

Are  dusk  and  dour, 

And  fearsome  lurkers  hide 

By  arch  and  door. 

66 


The  ruins  of  my  heart 

Are  lone  and  grim; 

There  strange  companions  start, 

Hollow  and  dim, 

In  the  deserted  rooms 

With    wan    despair — • 

What  doest  thou   in  these  glooms, 

Bonny  and  fair? 

Ghosts  of  dead  loves  at  night 

Arise  and  walk; 

Fear  sears  me  like  a  blight 

To  hear  them  talk. 

I  never  shall  get  free 

Of  their  dead  eyes. 

That  look  they  turn  on  me 

Kills  as  it  dies. 

Inhabit  not   my  soul, 

O  dream  of  dawn! 

The  dead  have  me  in  thrall, 

Will  not  be  gone, 

Haunt  me  by  ghostly  stair 

And  shuddering  gloom! 

Leave  me  to  seek  them  there 

From  room  to  room. 

COLUMBIA  UNIVERSITY,  1899. 
67 


Ill 


(In  this  group  of  earlier  poems  is  the  earliest  printed 
work  of  Richard  Hovey.  "  The  Song  of  the  Wind "  and 
"  Shakespeare  "  are  selected  from  a  book  of  -verse  written 
between  the  ages  of  ten  and  sixteen.  They,  with  others, 
•were  printed  by  the  author  and  a  boy  friend  who  had  a  toy 
printing  press,  in  Washington  in  1880.) 


THE    SONG    OF    THE    WIND 

I  LOVE  yon  crystal  lakelet, 

Her  purity  and  peace; 
I  sing  her  love  songs  from  the  shore 

Amid  the  leafy  trees— 
A  host  of  melancholy 

And  mystic  melodies. 


I  press  my  lips  to  her  lips 
In  the  kiss  my  soul  so  craves, 

Till  she  blushes  into  ripples 
And  dimples  into  waves — 

Till  she  dimples  into  eddies, 
And  blushes  into  waves. 


And,  when  the  night  has  fallen, 
I  sleep  upon  her  breast, 

For  I  weary  of  my  burden 
Of  odors  and  must  rest — 

For  with   surfeit  of  sweet  odors 
My    spirit   is    oppressed. 

1879. 


SHAKESPEARE 

BRIGHT  are  the  stars  of  the  night; 

Fair  is  each  twinkling  ray; 
But  at  the  earliest  light 

Of  morning  they  vanish  away — 
But  with  the  sun's  dawning  beam 

Like  ghosts  they  vanish  away. 

Sweet-voiced   are  the  bards  of  our  tongue, 

And  melody  floats  in  each  lay ; 
But,  gazing  on  poetry's  sun, 

Their  memory  fadeth  away — 
Their  fame  and  their  memory  fadeth 

As  the  stars  at  the  dawning  of  day. 
1879. 

MER-EN-MUT 

"WHAT  a  delicate  odor  of  spice!"  I  said 

And    I    looked    where    the    cloths    they   had   just 
unwrapped 

Left  bare  the  blackened  form  of  the  dead 
— Three  thousand  years  since  her  life  had  speed! 

Faint  as  the  dying  notes  of  a  lute 

When  the  fingers  have  ceased  to  touch  the  strings ! 
What  had  sound  or  scent  to  do  with  that  mute 

Dry  dust — the  life-tree's  Dead-Sea  fruit! 
72 


It  came  like  the  subtile  half-unguessed 

Mixture  of  unknown  memories 
That  thrill  our  minds  with  a  vague  unrest 

At  the  thought  of  some  long-lost  dear  heart's  guest. 

And  across  my  soul  came  the  dream  of  the  scent 

Of  violets  there  in  my  escritoire 
— Violets  she  gave  me  once  while  I  bent 

My  face  o'er  her  fingers,  quite  content. 

And  the  dream-scent  seemed  in  a  strange  dim  way 
Like  the  dead  sweet  scent  of  a  mummied  love. 

Will  it  rise  again  at  the  Last  Great  Day 
With  the  princess  here?    Shall  the  wise  dare  say! 

1887. 

THE    LADY    OF    THE    CAPE 

BEAUTY  in  earth  and  sky  and  air! 

In  this  thistle-down  by  the  wind's  breath  whirled 
Even  as  in  night's  remotest  world ! 

Beauty,  beauty  everywhere ! 

Beauty  in  yonder  rugged  rocks, 

And  beauty  in  the  weary  sea, 

And  beauty   in   the  burly  bee 
That  hums  among  the  hollyhocks. 

73 


Stern  beauty  in  the  kingly  storm, 
And  queenly  beauty  in  the  calm! 
And  beauty  in  my  sweet  sea-psalm, 

And  beauty  in  thy  foam-born  forml 

The  violet  sunlight  on  the  shoal! 

The  dark  blue  where  the  cloud-shadows  fall ! 

And  oh,  a    beauty  over  all — 
The  solemn  beauty  of  thy  soul! 


TWO    POETS 

LOVE'S  way  with  the  thrush; 
In  the  heart  of  the  larches, 
The  deepening  denies 

Where    the    shadows    dilate, 
The  dim  and  the  hush 
Of  dawn  in  the  arches 
Of  the  dark  forest  aisles, 

Alone  with  his  mate! 
The  song  would  die 
If  the  crowd  were  by. 

It  is  only  for  one  love's  dewdrop  is  glistening; 
It  would  frighten  him  voiceless  to  find  the  world 

listening. 

Sing  on,  glad  thrush, 
From  your  nest  in  the  heart  of  the  bush ! 

74 


Tho'  it's  only  the  song-smoke  of  love  upcurled 
As  incense  to  your  little  brown  mate, 

And  the  world  hears  not,  and  you  heed  not  the  world, 

And  sing  but  your  little  heartful  of  love, 

And  know  not  and  praise  not  the  great  kind  God 
above — 

All  the  same  you  praise  him, 

For  love  and  joy  are  his  praise — 
Be  elate,  be  elate! 

God  hears  you  and  knows  you  are  happy.    • 

Love's  way  with  the  sea-mew ; 
From  the  rocks  and  the  beaches, 
In  the  spume  and  the  spray. 
O  wild  one,  the  true 
Sea-poet  I  deem  you. 
The  vast  wind-reaches 
Are  a  trodden  way 

Through  the  storm  for  you. 
Do  you  love,  I  wonder, 
Aught  but  the  surge  and  the  thunder, 
The  gigantic  delight  of  the  clouds  and  the  white- 

maned  waves 

And  the  wind  that  bellows  and  maddens  and  raves, 
With  its  passionate  heart-burning, 
Its  mighty,  insatiable  yearning 

For  the  joy  it  will  never  possess,  but  unceasingly 
craves  ? 

75 


Sweep  along! 

Song  is  not  yours,  but  this  free  sea  life  is  a  song. 
There's  a  wild  sea  mate  somewhere  in  the  cliffs — 

But  oh,  the  joy  and  the  love  of  the  sea! 
The  booming  reefs  and  the  shuddering  skiffs! 
Love  is  well ;  but  here,  O  sea-lover,  where  your 

bliss  is, 

Can  you  not  almost  feel  God's  kisses? 
(If  you  but  knew,  O  sea-bird, 
The  kisses  are  his  indeed.) 
Flash  on,  flash  on  and  exult!    There's  a  true 

hymn  hid  in  your  glee ! 
Never  puzzle  your  pate  with  the  mystery. 
God  sees  you  fulfilling  His  dreaming. 

O  sea-mew !  wise  indeed 
Is  the  life  you  lead. 

It  is  well  no  sea-dreams  intrude 
On  the  brown  bird's  joy  of  the  wood. 
O  poets !  you  never  were  caught 

In  the  snare  of  choosing 
Which  well  to  quench  thirst  from,  when  each 

holds  cool,  sweet  drink. 
You  each  voice  a  thought 

Out  of  the  infinite  musing 

Of  the  great,  kind  God ;  and  that,  I  should  think, 
Were  enough  for  a  thrush  or  a  sea-mew. 

NEW  BRUNSWICK,  CANADA,  1888. 
76 


A  SONG  OF  REBELLION 

BEWARE  ! 
Ye  who  sit  in  high  places! 

Have  a  care  what  the  morrow  brings ! 
The  kings  are  fallen  on  their  faces 
And  ye  are  viler  than  kings. 

There's  a  death's  head  at  your  feasts. 
Your  old  saws  are  something  dreary, 
And  the  world  is  wellnigh  weary 
Of  the  prosing  of  your  priests. 
There's  a  muttering  in  the  air. 
Beware ! 

The  chains  of  your  slaves  are  stronger 

Than  the  chains  of  the  slaves  of  old. 
You  bind  with  iron  no  longer 
But  the  subtler  strength  of  gold. 

Hark !  hear  ye  not  through  the  night 
A  cry  like  the  trumpet's  clangor, 
The  cry  of  the  wronged  in  their  anger, 
Of  the  strong  man  in  his  might? 
Have  ye  heard  and  not  understood  ?- 
The  knife  is  athirst  for  blood. 

And  you — will  you  dare  revile  them, 
If  they  use  the  torch  and  the  knife? 

You,  who  have  striven  to  beguile  them 
Of  the  beauty  and  joy  of  life! 

77 


You  have  made  their  days  an  ill  dream 
And  the  sweets  of  their  childhood  bitter, 
While  your  lemans  were  brave  with  a  glitter 
Of  gems  and  a  golden  gleam! 

O  the  dainty  joints  you  have  carved, 
While  the  babes  of  your  workmen  starved! 

Ye  are  snug  and  sedate  in  your  churches 

But  your  hearts  have  not  known  the  Christ. 
Your  purity  is  offered  for  purchase, 
And  your  honour  is  a  thing  that  is  priced. 

But  the  wealth  of  your  winning  shall  fare 
At  the  last  as  wind-swept  stubble. 
Ye  have  cast  away  life  for  a  bubble 
That  bursts  at  a  breath  of  air. 
Ye  have  bartered  the  things  that  endure, 
O  fools,  for  a  lie  and  a  lure. 

Ye  marry  and  are  given  in  marriage 

For  a  pitiful  gift  of  gold 
Or  a  coat  of  arms  on  your  carriage, 
As  if  love  were  a  tale  that  is  told. 
Ay,  the  daughter  is  sold  for  pelf 
And  the  lie  on  her  lips  does  not  falter, 
And  the  pander  is  a  priest  at  the  altar 
And  the  bawd  is  the  mother  herself. 
Let  the  Law  and  the  Church  approve! 
But  the  wife  is  no  wife  without  love. 
78 


You  send  your  priests  to  our  alleys 

To  tell  us  that  meekness  wins, 
And  reprove  us  for  envy  and  malice 
And  exhort  us  to  turn  from  our  sins. 

Was  it  by  meekness  you  won? 
Upon  whom  will  you  dare  pass  sentence? 
We  have  sinned.    Who  has  not?    Will  repentance 
Undo  one  deed  that  is  done? 
Shall  we  kneel  in  a  lazy  despair, 
And  wail  at  the  skies  in  vain  prayer? 

We  have  stifled  our  anger  and  stirred  not, 

And  ye  smote  us  with  a  heavier  rod; 
We  have  called  upon  God  and  He  heard  not, 
And  ye  were  more  heedless  than  God. 
It  is  time  for  the  turn  of  the  tide. 
Oh,  masters,  are  ye  merciless  blindly? 
The  barons  of  old  were  more  kindly — 
Would  God  we  had  let  them  abide! 
It  is  time  for  the  tide  to  turn. 
Beware,  lest  your  patience  burn! 

War!    War! 
The  world  has  groaned  long  enough 

With  its  weariness  and  its  pain. 
Behold,  are  we  not  strong  enough 
To  arise  and  shatter  the  chain? 
Forward  into  the  fight! 

79 


Cut  a  way  through  the  ranks  of  error ! 
On — in  the  teeth  of  terror ! 

On— through  the  dark  to  the  light! 

Behind  the  storm  is  the  star! 

War!    War! 


A   PATRICIAN  POET 

I  HAVE  lived  too  long.    The  new  age  is  come  with 

its  sin  and  its  shame, 
Names  with  the  guerdon  of  truth  and  truth  becomes 

but  a  name. 
Kings   discrowned  by  the  rabble  and  .altars  defiled 

by  the  schools, 
And  the  glory  of  ancient  wisdom  a  mock  for  the 

tongues  of  fools — 

Canaille  scoffing  at  Honor,  Chivalry,  Loyalty,  Faith, — 
They  call  the  Ideal  a  phantom,   and  each  thought 

of  their  hearts  is  a  wraith ; 
Speak  with  a  smile  of  dreams  and  dream  that  the 

world  is  free, 
Deny  the  Gospel  and  seek  a  Christ  in  the  Rule  of 

Three. 

'80 


Oh,  he's  a  wise,  broad  thinker,  your  man  of  the 
period ; 

Just  hear  him  scoff  at  the  creeds — he  has  even  his 
doubts  about  God ; 

Pshaw,  there  is  nothing  real  but  railways  and  ma 
chines  ; 

Poetry?  Loyalty?  Faith?  Weak  props  for  a  tower 
that  leans! 


No  need  of  props  to  support  the  new  marvelous  col 
umn  he  rears 

Built  on  the  shifting  sands,  he  thinks  'twill  outlast 
the  years. 

Oh,  how  he  hates  intolerance! — see  his  eye  flash  at 

(the   word; 
Wouldn't  he  make  the  intolerant  howl,  if  he  bore  the 
sword ! 


Bah,  your  liberal's  ever  worst  bigot,  your  broad  man 

the  narrowest  ass, 
Your  Free  Thought  the  true  captive  beating  'gainst 

barriers  it  never  can  pass. 
Call  me  slave  of  old  thoughts  and  old  systems,  sunk 

deep  in  the  Old  World  mire ! 
So  the  world  thinks,  that  thinks  you  the  freeman — 

but  the  world  is  a  pitiful  liar. 

81 


That's  where  the  evil  begins — in  the  theories  that 
beguile 

The  idle  hour  at  the  club,  where  the  skeptical  sim 
per  and  smile, 

Arraying  the  stark  unbelief  in  the  finery  of  culture 
and  Art. 

Fudge!  the  gentles  but  play  at  Free  Thought,  it's 
the  mob  that  take  it  to  heart. 


Be  sure,  where  a  gentleman  soils  his  patent-leathers, 

it's  luck 
If  the  clown  that  follows  him  doesn't  plunge  heels 

over  head  in  the  muck. 

Atheism  in  the  palace  smiles  in  its  silken  coat, 
But   atheism   in   the   hovel   curses   and   cuts   your 

throat. 


Sneer   at  the   ancients,   fools,— but   you'll   never   be 
half  as  great. 

Oh,  never  a  visionary  of  the  ages  you  laugh  at  and 
hate, 

Was  half  so  deluded  a  dunce  as  your  rattlepate  mod 
ern  fanatics, — 

Do  you  think  the  millennium  will  come  when  your 
stable  boys  study  quadratics? 
82 


Educate,   educate,   educate!     Tis   the  catchword  of 

the   age. 
One  would  fancy  you  thought  even  anarchy  might 

grow  quiet  and  sage, — 
A  little  toy  Heaven — if  learned;  or  deemed,  if  the 

truth  you  would  speak, 
Democracies  just,  as  soon  as  the  democrats  all  know 

Greek. 


Teach  them  and  then  they  will  rise,  you  say.  Call 
it  so;  but  to  what? 

From  the  lowly  unlettered  content  of  the  old-fash 
ioned  laborer's  lot 

To  the  whirl  and  the  bustle  and  greed  of  the  life 
of  the  shop  and  the  street — 

To  the  filth  of  political  intrigue,  the  statecraft  of 
trickster  and  cheat — 


To  the  knowledge  of  murderous  means  that  are  safer 

than  pistol  and  knife — 
To  the  discord  that  springs  from  a  false  note  struck 

in  the  music  of  life. 
They  who  lay  moored  in  the  calm,  by  new  blasts  to 

the  tempest  are  wrenched. 
What  use  knowing  logarithms,  if  the  light  of  the 

stars  be  quenched? 

83 


What  can  you  teach,  after  all?     Mere  scraps  from 

the  Public  School, 
To  craze  with  conceit  of  wisdom  the  empty  pate  of 

a  fool. 
Teach  them  the  A  B  C  of  the  learning  the  ages  have 

stored, — 
Straightway  they  deem  themselves  able  to  govern  as 

well  as  my  lord. 


Even  God's  providence  useless — a  child's  help — they 

need  it  no  more, 
Just  because  they  have  mastered  the  nursery-rhymes 

of  lore. 
Public    School,    forsooth !     Panacea   for   all   world's 

wo! 
Kingdom    come    when    the    schoolhouse    equals    the 

high  and  the  low ! 


Mix  them  together,  the  children,  so  caste  dies,  democ 
racy  lives; 

But  what  will  you  breed  but  mongrels,  cross  be 
tween  gentles  and  thieves? 

Crowd  Lower  and  Higher  together  in  a  mad  demo 
cratic  uproar, — 

The  Lower  will  pull  down  the  Higher,  not  the  Higher 
ennoble  the  Lower, 

84 


And  into  the  pure  white  souls  of  your  high-born 
children  shall  thrust, 

To  creep  and  coil  and  commingle,  the  loathsome  ser 
pents  of  lust — 

Ay,  lust  of  nameless  and  shameless  kinds — O  broth 
ers !  O  men! 

Will  ye  pull  down  God's  wrath  on  New  Sodom  ?  Will 
ye  build  up  a  New  Babel  again? 


Oh,  many  an  untaught  peasant,  far  from  the  school 

and  the  mart, 
Wise  in  his  simple  way  with  the  silly  lore  of  the 

heart, 
Is   far   higher   and   nobler   and   better   and   wiser — 

worth  more  for  life's  work, 
Than  your  gutter-sprung  smatter-taught  bullies  that 

misrule  and  plunder  New  York. 


Behind  the  times?  It's  an  easy  cry.  Be  it  so,  if 
you  will; 

Better  behind  the  times,  if  the  times  are  going  down 
hill. 

Did  you  live  in  the  days  of  Nero,  had  you  cared  to 
keep  up  with  the  times  ? 

Not  I,  tho  Nero  himself  had  sneered  at  my  retro 
grade  rhymes. 

85 


The  world  will  awake  some  day;  I  know  it,  for  God 

is  great. 
For  some  good,  though  I  guess  it  dimly,  His  people 

suffer  and  wait. 
It  will  all  come  right  in  the  end; — God  forbid  that 

I  doubt!— but  I— 
I  am  old;  I  shall  never  see  it.    It  is  time  for  me 

to  die. 

WASHINGTON,  D.  C. 


HYMN  FOR  THE  HOLY  DAY  OF  ST. 
CATHERINE  OF  ALEXANDRIA 

QUEEN  upon  earth !   Ah,  more,  our  queen  in  heaven ! 

What  may  men  bring  for  gifts  before  thy  throne? 

What  praise  for  thee,  to  whom  God's  praise  is  given  ? 

O  ruler  of  ten  cities !  what  wrought  zone 
Of  gold  of  earthly  poesy,  starred  round 
With  flaming  rubicels  of  love  that  yearns, 

Is  meet  for  thee  whom  God  girds  as  a  queen 
With  glory  of  archangels  and  the  sound 

Of  sacred  trumpets  and  the  light  that  burns 
On  all  the  altars  of  thy  wide  demesne? 
Shed  thou  thy  grace  on  us 
Whom  the  four  angels 
Bare  through  the  air 
To  the  marvellous  tomb ! 
86 


Turn  thy  fair  face  on  us ! 
Teach  us  evangels 
Newer  and  truer! 

Lighten  the  gloom, 
That  our  eyes  may  see  clear! 
Though  the  darkness  be  drear! 
O  Queen  and  Teacher,  we  besech  thee,  hear ! 

O  thou  wise  Lady,  whose  illumined  eyes 
Beheld  not  only  Moses  on  the  Mount, 
Saw  not  alone  before  thy  vision  rise 

The  royal  sage  whose  wisdom  learned  to  count 
All  world's-ways  vanity  that  led  him  not 
To  Him  who  holds  all  worlds  within  His  palm, 
Nor  the  great  Twain  on  whom  Death  worked 

no  wrong! 
Thou  hast  trodden  the  Stagirite's  straight  ways  of 

thought 

And  walked  with  Plato  on  the  heights  of  calm 
And  learned  the  strange  lore  of  the  Sibyl's  song. 
Each  was  God's  voice  with  thee — 
Hebrew  or  Hellen — 
Light  for  thy  sight 

To  discover  thy  Lord. 
Now  they  rejoice  with  thee, 
Chosen  to  dwell  in 
Aidenn,  a  maiden 
Crowned   and   adored. 

87 


And  we  too  would  draw  near 
To  salute  and  revere 
O  wise  and  radiant  and  benign  one,  hear! 


Not  only  unto  thee  that  prince  of  yore, 
Whose   psalms    still   girdle   earth   with   chains   of 

praise, 
Nor  he  who  sang  the  song  of  him  who  bore 

God's  utmost  patiently,  unlocked  their  lays; 
Nor  even  God's  poet-mother  held  alone 
High  discourse  with  thee.     Homer  also  spread 
On  thy  soul's  sea  the  singing  of  his  sails. 
Thou  hast  heard  devout  Euripides'  sweet  moan 
And  Pindar  trumpeting  with  uplifted  head 
And  Sappho  thrilling  with  the  nightingales- 
Sunless  but  glorious 
Beacons  unnumbered, 
Bright  in  the  night 

With   God's   luminous   breath, 
Star-souls    victorious 
Though  the  dawn  slumbered, 
Bringing  with   singing 

Forewords  God  saith. 
All  a-stagger  we  tread 
In  the  ways  where  they  led. 
Strengthen  our  steps,  O  victress  garlanded  1 


Now  night  and  twilight   for  ,  thine  eyes  are  ended 

In  the  diviner  noonday  of  the  place 
When  God's  white  sunlight  makes  the  city  splendid 

With  glory  from  the  shining  of  His  face; 
Yet  are  the  stars  not  lightless  in  that  flood 
Of  radiance,  brightening  forth  with  steadier  glow, 
Their  angel  forms  the  clearlier  outlined  there — 
The  Powers  and  Principalities  that  stood 
Undaunted  when  Heaven  warred  with  the  great 

Foe, 

And  the  clear-sighted  ones  who  made  earth  fair. 
Thou,  whom  they  reverence 
(Thrones  and  dominions), 
Save  from  the  grave 

Of  unknowledge  and  night ! 
Face  us  forever  hence 
Dawnward,  whose  pinions 
Weary  in  dreary 

Doubt  of  the  light ! 
Be  a  lamp  in  our  way, 
That  our  feet  may  not  stray ! 
Sainted  and  sweet,  have  rue  on  us,  we  pray! 


O  thou  who  sittest  ever  at  her  feet 

Whom  God  wrought  of  all  creatures  holiest 

That  she  might  be  as  spotless  raiment  meet 
To  clothe  the  Eternal  Word  with !  Fair  sky's-guest, 
89 


With  whom  the  high  arch-regents  of  the  spheres 
Hold  interchange  of  sweet  Olympian  words — 

Apollo  and  lute-hearted  Israfel 

And  clear-limbed  Artemis,  splendid  with  her  spears, 
Uranian  Aphrodite  and  her  birds, 
Serene  Athene,  sword-eyed  Uriel! 
Thou  who  didst  seek  on  high 
Love  such  as  breast  shall 
Pour  nevermore 

For  a  mortal  man's  mirth ! 
Thou  who  from  beacon  eye, 
Flaming,  celestial, 
Lightest  our  brightest 

Torches  of  earth ! 
O  refulgent  and  fair, 
With  the  stars  in  thy  hair! 
Holy  and  blessed,  hearken  to  our  prayer ! 


Grant  us  thine  aid  that,  as  our  footsteps  wander 

Down  the  long  years,  still  searching  for  the  Sign, 
With    no    love-ruining    pride    our    weak    thoughts 

ponder 

The  deep  sweet  undertones  of  the  Thought  divine, 
The  mystery  of  the  grasses  of  the  field, 
And  the  green  crown  of  sunset  in  the  west, 
And  the  wind's  ways  that  no  man's  feet  have 
trod, 

90 


Till  each  new  glory  to  the  mind  revealed 
Kindle  new  love  beneath  the  yearning  breast 
And  the  head's  wisdom  lead  the  heart  to  God — 
Till,  in  Heaven's  unity, 
Loving  and  learning 
Meet  and,  complete, 

Are  as  one  word,  not  twain, 
Weak  importunity 
Yields  to  soul's  spurning 
And,  risen  from  prison, 

Love  shakes  off  Time's  chain. 
O  royal  and  wise! 
Daedal-throned  in  the  skies! 
O  crowned  of  God!    O  rose  of 'Paradise! 


IV 


93 


(.The  following  ten  songs  hare  been  collected  from  note 
books,  and  found  to  be  so  much  liked  by  lovers  of  Maeter 
linck  that  it  seems  best  to  include  them  here.) 


94 


SONGS  FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF 
MAETERLINCK 


I. 


SHE  fettered  her  in  a  cavern  dour, 
She  set  a  mark  upon  the  door, 
The  maid  forgot  the  light  of  day 
And  the  key  fell  into  the  sea. 

She  waited  all  the  summer  days, 
She  waited  seven  years  or  more. 
Each  year  a  passer  passed  the  door. 

She  waited  all  the  winter  days, 
And  as  she  waited  her  golden  hair 
Remembered  how  the  light  was  fair. 

It  sought  it  out,  it  found  it  out, 
It  glided  out  between  the  stones 
And  lighted  all  the  rocks  about. 

A  passer  passed  again  one  night, 

He  did  not  understand  the  light 

And  dared  not  draw  near  where  it  shone. 

He  thought  it  was  a  symbol  fey, 
He  thought  it  was  a  golden  rain, 
He  thought  it  was  an  angel's  play, 
He  turned  away  and  passed  again. 

95 


II. 

AND  if  some  day  he  come  back, 
What  should  he  be  told?— 

— Tell  him  he  was  waited  for 
Till  my  heart  was  cold.    .    .    . 

And  if  he  ask  me  yet  again, 

Not  recognizing  me? — 
— Speak   him   fair   and   sisterly ; 

His   heart  breaks,  maybe.     .    .    . 

And  if  he  asks  me  where  you  are, 

What  shall  I  reply?— 
— Give  him  my  golden  ring; 

Make  no  reply.     .     .    . 

And  if  he  ask  me  why  the  hall 

Is  left  desolate? 
— Show  him  the  unlit  lamp 

And  the  open  gate.    .    .    . 

And  if  he  should  ask  me,  then, 

How  you  fell  asleep? — 
—Tell  him  that  I  smiled,  for  fear 

Lest  he  should  weep.    .    .    . 


III. 

THEY  have  killed  three  little  girls,  to  see 
What  there  was  in  their  little  hearts. 

The  first  heart  was  full  of  happiness: 

And  three  years  where'er  its  blood  had  flowed, 

Three  serpents  hissed  along  the  road. 

The  second  heart  was  full  of  gentleness: 
And  three  years  where'er  the  blood  had  flowed, 
Three  lambs  bleated  in  the  road. 

The  third  heart  was  full  of  wretchedness: 
And  three  years  where'er  the  blood  had  flowed, 
Three  archangels  watched  beside  the  road. 

IV. 

THE  maids  with  banded  eyes 
(Take  off  the  golden  bands) 

The  maids  with  banded  eyes 
Seek  out  their  destinies. 

The  eyes  are  wide  at  noon 

(Guard  well  the  golden  bands) 
The  eyes  are  wide  at  noon 
Ah!     Palace  of  the  plains  .  .  . 

97 


They  greeted  life  with  mirth 

(Put  back  the  golden  bands) 
They  greeted  life  with  mirth 
And   never    ventured    forth  . 


v.' 

THE  three  blind  sisters 
(Hope  we  as  of  old) 
The  three  blind  sisters 
With  their  lamps  of  gold  .  .  . 

Climbed  the  tower-stair 

(They  and  you  and  we) 
Climbed  the  tower-stair 
And  seven  days  waited  there. 

"  Oh,"  the  first  one  said 

(Hope  we  as  of  old) 
"  Oh,"  the  first  one  said, 
"Is  it  the  lamp  that  sighs?" 

"Oh,"  the  second  said 
(They  and  you  and  we) 

"Oh,"  the  second  said, 
Tis  the  King  draws  near.1 

98 


u  t 


"No,"  the  holiest  said 
(Hope  we  as  of  old) 
"No,"  the  holiest  said, 
"The  lights  are  all  dead." 


VI 

SOMEONE  came  to  say 
(Child,  I  am  afraid) 
Someone  came  to  say 
He  would  go  away.  .  .  . 

With  my  lamp  alight 
(Child,  I  am  afraid) 
With  my  lamp  alight 
I  went  through  the  night.  .  . 

And  at  the  first  door 

(Child,  I  am  afraid) 
And  at  the  first  door 
The  flame  shook  with  fright. 

At  the  second  door 

(Child,  I  am  afraid) 
At  the  second  door 
The  flame  spoke  outright.  .  . 

99 


And  at  the  third  door 
(Child,  I  am  afraid) 
And  at  the  third  door 
The  light  burned  no  more.  .  . 


VII. 

THE  seven  daughters  of  Orlamonde, 
When  the  Fairy  was  no  more, 

The  seven  daughters  of  Orlamonde 
Went  seeking  for  the  door.  .  .  . 

They  lit  their  seven  lamps  and  sought ; 

Up  the  tower  went  they; 
They  opened  thrice  two  hundred  doors, 

But  nowhere   found  the  day.  .  .  . 

They  came  unto  the  sounding  vaults 

That  lead  down  to  the  sea; 
And  there  above  a  bolted  door 

They  found  a  golden  key. 

They  saw  the  ocean  through  the  chinks, 
They  feared  they  should  have  died; 

And  beat  against  the  bolted  door 
But  dared  not  fling  it  wide.  .  .  . 
100 


VIII. 

WHEN  he  had  gone 
(I  heard  the  door) 

When  he  had  gone 
She   had    smiled  .  .  . 

But  when  he  returned 

(I  heard  the  lamp) 
But  when  he  returned 
Another  was  there  .  .  . 

And  I  have  seen  Death 
(I  heard  his  soul) 

And  I  have  seen  Death 
Who  waits  once  more 


IX. 

WHY  have  you  lighted  all  the  links 
— I  see  the  sun  in  the  garden ! — 

Why  have  you  lighted  all  the  links? 

I  see  the  sunlight  through  the  chinks  I 
Open  the  doors  to  the  garden ! 

101 


— The  keys  that  ope  the  doors  are  lost, 
And  we  must  wait,  and  we  must  wait; 
The  three  keys  fell  from  the  tower  wall 
And  we  must  wait  and  we  must  wait 
And  we  must  wait  till  the  morrows. 


The  morrows  will  open  wide  the  doors, 

The  forest  hides  the  locks, 
The  forest  burns  about  our  walls. 
It  is  the  light  of  the  autumn  leaves 

That  shines  on  the  sills  of  the  doors— 


—The  morrows  weary  on  the  way; 

The  morrows  fear — they  fear  as  well. 
The  morrows  will  not  come  this  way; 
The  morrows  die — they  die  as  well, 

And  we  as  well  shall  die.  .  .  . 


X. 


THIRTY  years  I  sought,  my  sisters, 

For  his  hiding  place, — 
Thirty  years  I  walked,  my  sisters, 

And  I   found  no  trace  .  .  . 
102 


Thirty  years  I  walked,  my  sisters, 
Far  as  my  feet  may  bear  .  .  . 

He  is  everywhere,  my  sisters, 
Yet  exists  nowhere  .  .  . 

Bitter  is  the  hour,  O  my  sisters, 

I  have  missed  the  goal. 
The  evening  dies,  too,  my  sisters, 

I  am  sick  in  my  soul  .  .  . 

You  are  but  sixteen,  O  my  sisters, 

Go  far  from  this  place. 
Take  up  my  burden,  my  sisters, 

And  seek  ever  his  face. 

I. 

SIGH 

(From  the  French  of  Mallarm/.) 

MY  soul  toward  thy  forehead,  O  calm  sister,  where 
An  autumn  of  strewn  freckles  dreams  in  the  still 

air, 
And  toward  the  wandering  heaven  of  thine  angel 

eye 
Mounts  as,  in  some  sad  garden  where  the  last  leaves 

die, 

103 


Still  faithful,  a  white  fountain  sighs  toward  the  blue 
— Toward  the  softened,  pallid,  pure  October  blue 
That  glasses  i'  the  great  bowls  its  languor  without 

end, — 

And  lets  the  yellow  sun  o'er  waters  where  the  wind 
Drives  tawny  throes  of  leaves  that  veer  and  cleave 

a  cold 
Furrow,  in  one  long  ray  drag  out  its  sobbing  gold. 

GlVERNY,    AugUSt,    1897. 

II. 

THE   FLOWERS 

(From  the  French  of  Mallarme.) 

FROM  the  golden  avalanches  of  the  ancient  Blue, 
In  the  first  day,  and  from  the  stars'  eternal  snow 

Thou  didst  detach  of  yore  great  calices  to  strew 
Upon  the  earth,  still  young  and  virgin  yet  of  woe; 

The  tawny  gladiolus,  with  the  slim  necked  swans; 
The  laurel,  sacred  flower  the  souls  of  exiles  wear, 
Vermilion    as    the    seraph's    toe    whose    pureness 

there 

Reddens    in    heaven    with    the    blush    of    trampled 
dawns ; 

104 


The  hyacinth,  the  myrtle  worshipped  for  its  hues, 
And,    like   the   flesh   of   woman,   cruel-sweet,   the 

rose, 

Herodias  in  bloom  of  the  fair  garden-close, 
She  whom  a  dew  of  fierce  and  glowing  blood  be 
dews; 

And  thou  didst  make  the  lilies  with  their  sobbing 

white 

That,  rolling  over  seas  of  sighs  it  grazes  on, 
Through  the  blue  incense  of  horizons  of  pale  light 
Mounts    upward    dreamily    toward    the    weeping 
moon. 

Hosanna    on    the    sistrum    and    where    the    censer 

swings ! 
Our  Lady,   hosanna  from  the  garden  where   we 

wait! 
And  let  the  echo  die  in  heavenly  evenings, 

Looks  that  are  ecstasies,  haloes  that  scintillate! 

III. 
THE    WINDOWS 

(From  tlie  French  of  Mallarme.) 

TIRED  of  the  gloomy  ward  and  the  rank  smell 
That  rises  in  the  curtain's  banal  white 

Toward  the  great  Christ  that  wearies  of  the  wall, 
The   sick  man  slyly  lifts  himself  upright 

105 


And  drags  his  old  limbs,  less  to  warm  his  sores 
Than  see  the  sunlight  on  the  stones  and  glue 

The  white  hairs  and  the  bones  of  his  thin  face 
Against  the  windows  the  sweet  sun  burns  through ; 

And  his  lips,  feverish,  hungry  for  the  sky, — 
As  once  they  breathed  in  their  delight  of  old, 

Flesh  virginal  and  of  long  since! — now  grease 
With  a  long  bitter  kiss  the  panes'  warm  gold. 

Drunken,  he  lives — forgets  the  dreaded  priests, 

The  draughts,  the  clock,  the  bed  where  he  must  die, 

The  cough ;  and  when  the  evening  bleeds  i'  the  tiles, 
In  the  horizon,  gorged  with  light,  his  eye 

Sees  golden  galleys,  beautiful  as  swans, 
Sleep  on  a  river  of  purple  and  perfumes, 

Cradling  the  tawny  lightning  of  their  lines 
In  a  large  idlesse  laden  with  old  dooms. 

So,  seized  with  loathing  for  hard-hearted  man 
Who  wallows  in  his  belly's  food  and  runs 

Headstrong  to  seek  that  filth,  to  offer  it 
To  her  that  gives  suck  to  his  little  ones, 

I  flee,  and  clutch  at  every  casement  whence 
One  turns  his  back  on  life  and,  benedight, 

Within  those  panes  washed  with  eternal  dews, 
Gold  with  the  chaste  dawn  of  the  Infinite, 
106 


Glass  me,  and  see  the  angel!  die,  and  would  fain 
— Be  the  glass  Art,  or  light  of  occult  powers! — 

Would  rise  and  take  my  dream  for  diadem 
To  the  prime  heaven  that  beauty  blossoms  in — 

But,   alas,  Down-Here  is  master;   even  in  this 
Safe  shelter  haunts  me,  makes  me  sick  to  die, 

And  the  foul  vomit  of  the  silly  swine 

Still  makes  me  hold  my  nose  before  the  sky. 

Is  there  a  way,  my  soul  that  knows  the  gall, 
To  smash  the  glass  insulted  by  the  Lie, 

And  to  escape  with  my  two  plumeless  wings, 
At  risk  of  falling  through  eternity? 


THE   FAUN 
(From  the  French  of  Verlaine.) 

AN  old  terra-cotta  Faun 

Grins  in  the  middle  of  the  green, 

Boding,  no  doubt,  some  ill  to  blast 
The  moments  that  with  steps  serene 

Have  led  me  on,  and  led  thee  on, 
Pilgrims  of  melancholy  mien, 

Up  to  this  hour  whose  flying  past 
Twirls  to  the  sound  of  the  tambourine. 

WOLFVILLE,    1896. 

107 


V. 


log 


DON   JUAN 

CANTO  XVIL 

DON  JUAN  stood  upon  the  quarter  deck— 
I'm  not  quite  certain  "  quarter  deck  "  is  right, 

And  I  dare  say  I'll  get  it  in  the  neck 
From  the  dear  youths  who  teach  me  how  to  write ; 

But  then,  it  sounds  so  nautical — "  quarter  deck  "  ! 
We  must  have  local  color :  if  not  quite 

Exact,  why,  many  a  name  even  critics  venerate 

Has  been  a  worse  sailor  than  I.    At  any  rate, 

On  some  kind  of  a  deck  Don  Juan  stood; 

In  these  new-fangled  steamers  I'm  not  sure 
That  any  of  the  good  old  words  hold  good — 

Only  the  lurch  and  seasickness  endure. 
But  Juan  had  sailed  many  seas  and  could 

Have  passed  through  tempests  with  no  qualms  to 

cure, 

Nor  any  loss  of  peace  of  mind,  or  diet 
However,  at  this  time,  the  sea  was  quiet. 

It  was  a  night  Lorenzo  might  have  praised 
To  Jessica,  when  those  dear  scamps  sat  purring 

Of  Dido  and  of  Cressid,  while  they  lazed 
Under  the  stars  and  heard  the  low  winds  stirring, 
111 


And  gurgled  in  each  other's  ears,  and  gazed 

Into  each  other's  eyes,  like  doves  conferring, 
Until  that  music  broke  upon  their  ears 
That  mingled  with  the  music  of  the  spheres — 

That  strain  the  world  shall  never  hear  again, 
Nor  cease  to  hear  forever.     Such  a  night 

The  quivering  liner  with  its  thousand  men 
Raced  through,  a  goaded,  maddened  meteorite 

Across  the  vast  of  calm.    There  was  not  then 
One  cloud  to  blot  the  innumerable  light 

That  made  the  still  impeccable  sky  a  splendour 

Of  armied  worlds  grand  in  supreme  surrender. 

Low  in  the  North  blazed  sevenfold  the  Bear, 
Like  outpost  angels  f rontiered  toward  the  Nought ; 

Far  southward  on  the  sea-line  rose  a-flare 
The  beacon  of  enormous  Formalhaut; 

From  east  to  west,  from  Rigel  to  Altair, 
The  Milky  Way  arched  like  the  Master's  thought 

Of  what  he  yet  will  raise  in  cosmic  masonry 

To  span  the  void,  and  stud  with  stellar  blasonry. 

For  all  along  that  arch  of  dream  there  flew 
The  pennons  of  the  princes  of  the  night, 

The  guidons  of  that  infinite  review; 

Prone  on  the  very  waves  outstretched,  the  might 

112 


Of  huge  Orion  heaved  itself  to  view; 

And  higher  toward  the  Pole  the  yellow  light 
Of  Norse  Capella  signalled  overseas 
To  where,  below  the  clustered  Pleiades, 

Aldebaran,  a  fiery  heart,  replied 

With  flame  that  like  a  shout  o'erleaped  the  ex 
panse  ; 
And  higher  toward  the  zenith  the  red  pride 

Of  Algol,  the  star-demon,  flared  askance; 
And  higher  still,  in  full  midheaven  enskied, 

Cassiopeia   crowned   the   high   advance 
And  seemed  to  pause  a  moment  on  heaven's  crest 
Ere  she  descended.    Further  in  the  West 

The  glory  of  Deneb  made  Cygnus  kindle ; 

And  Vega,  further  south,  whom  sailors  love, 
Serene  and  large,  made  starlets  seem  to  spindle — 

Vega,  the  lady  of  summer  nights.     Above 
There  was  no  moon  to  make  the  star-host  dwindle; 

No  planets  either — 'twas  the  30th  of 
September,  1899;  that  night 
(See  the  ephemeris)  there  were  none  in  sight. 

But  Juan  didn't  know  planets  from  stars ; 

He  only  knew  that  under  that  far  glory 
He  felt  a  greatness  more  than  loves  or  wars 

Could  bring — and  both  had  mingled  with  his  story ; 


Of  both  he  knew  the  garlands  and  the  scars 

(And  of  most  other  matters  transitory)  ; 
But  here  the  shadow  of  the  Eternal  fell 
About  his  soul,  which  greatened  there  to  dwell. 

The  calm  was  in  his  heart  as  on  the  sea. 

The  Lone  wherein  we  voyage  none  knows  whither ; 
The  sound  of  waters  under  the  ship's  lee 

Confused  his  senses  in  a  pleasant  blither 
And  loosed  his  soul  in  dreamland    .    .    .    But  see! 

There   on   the   starboard   bow   what   light   comes 

hither? 

Just  under  Vega?    Is  it  a  new  star? 
Or  some  ship's  light  that  hails  us  from  afar? 

Just  then  a  fellow-passenger  strolled  up 

With   "That's   Fire   Island.    Well,   the   trip   was 
short. 

To-morrow  we  shall  be  at  Del's  to  sup. 
I  wonder  whether  Dewey  is  in  port. 

And  Lipton — do  you  think  he'll  lift  the  cup  ? 
Thank  Fortune,  we'll  have  news  soon  of  some  sort. 

I've  such  a  next-day's  thirst  for  information, 

I'd  even  be  content  to  read  The  Nation. ' 

"  Do  you  think  war's  declared  on  the  Boers  yet  ?  .  .  ." 
And  Juan  sighed  and  wished  it  were — internally— 

And  all  his  dreams  dropped  with  his  cigarette 
O'er  the  ship's  side.    He  was  bored  infernally, 
H4 


But  covered  with  a  smile  his  inward  fret 
(His  conscience  wasn't  so  violent  as  to  spurn  a 

lie), 

And  after  some  discussion  of  Fashoda 
Went  to  the  smoking-room  for  Scotch  and  soda. 

The  fellow-passenger  was  a  worthy  man — 

A    several-millions'-worth-y-man, — had    travelled 

Widely  (once  in  his  own  yacht  to  Japan) 
And  many  knotty  social  coils  unravelled; 

Knew  just  which  colored  ties  were  under  ban; 
Cavilled  at  all  at  which  his  set  had  cavilled ; 

And  never  had  one  notion  in  his  cranium 

More  his  own  than  his  florist's  last  geranium. 

His  father's  name  was  Smith,  and  later  Smythe; 

He  was  Van  Smythe,  completely  Knickerbockered. 
His  father  had  begun  with  spade  and  scythe ; 

He  from  his  cradle  had  been  coaxed  and  cockered. 
His  father  had  the  wit  to  take  his  tithe 

And  wed  a  widow  who  was  richly  tochered, 
But  never  quite  got  into  good  society; 
He  belonged  to  its  most  select  variety. 

He  held  within  the  hollow  of  his  hand 
The  World— in  little— that's  to  say,  a  wallet; 

Gave  midnight  suppers  delicately  planned 
(In  this  he  was  assisted  by  his  valet)  j 


Knew  how  to  drive  (and  tie)  a  four-in-hand; 

Had  wines  that  made  a  Caesar  of  his  palate; 
Owned  everything  there  was  on  earth  to  own, 
And  nothing  that  was  really  his  own. 

Nothing  of  which  his  thought  had  been  a  part, 
To  make  it  more  than  tatters  caught  on  trees. 

Rugs,  Chippendale,  Johannesberger,  Art — 
He  paid  for  them  but  never  made  them  his. 

His  dogs,  perhaps,  were  nearest  to  his  heart; 
But  he  had  houses,  horses,  all  there  is. 

And,  what  was  most  of  all  to  Juan's  liking, 

A  wife  whose  beauty  was  supremely  striking. 

She  was  a  slight,  red-headed  type, 

With  eyes  like  sealskin  and  a  cheek  like  ermine. 
Soft,  lush,  and  deep;  her  lips  were  overripe, 

If  anything — but  who  would  dare  determine? 
She  fenced,  rode,  flirted,  smoked — had  hit  the  pipe, 

They  say — (but  all  looked  dainty  in  her  mien)- 
For  Ellinor  (her  Christian  name  was  Ellinor) 
Had  twenty-seven  different  kinds  of  hell  in  her. 

How  many  kinds  of  heaven  I  dare  not  say, — 
The  heavens  that  women  have  are  so  improper; 

And  I  am  still  determined  that  this  lay 
Shall  not  at  moral  fences  come  a  cropper. 
116 


True,  cardboard  mottoes  are  not  much  my  way 

But,  as  Catullus  says,  "Who  cares  a  copper?" 
I  still  maintain  my  purpose  highly  moral ; 
As  for  my  methods,  well,  we  will  not  quarrel. 

I  stand  with  Shakespeare,  not  to  speak  of  Solomon ; 

My  critics  stand  with  Bowdler,  Harlan,  Comstock, 
And  though  that  kind  may  look  supremely  solemn 
on 

Occasion,  they're  at  the  bottom  but  a  rum  stock. 
A  man  may  be  a  virtuous  though  a  jolly  man, 

And  wise   without  that  mummery   that   benumbs 

talk, 

That  dull,  pretentious,  preternatural  gravity 
Those  Tartuffes  wear  to  cloak  their  own  depravity. 

These  self-made  bishops  of  the  phallic  crozier, 
Who  roll  their  eyes  up  till  they  show  the  whites 

(Why  isn't  that  an  indecent  exposure?) 
These  ticklish  gentlemen  who  make  war  on  tights, 

Gloat  on  the  coy  shop-windows  of  the  hosier, 
And   peep   through   their   own   window   blinds   o* 
nights 

To  watch  Susannah  bare  her  dimpled  knees — 

And  then  report  the  case  to  the  police. 

Susannah's  story  is  quite  Biblical; 
But  Ellinor  Van  Smythe's  is  much  more  modest — 
117 


Modern,  I  mean  to  say — but,  after  all, 
It's    much    the    same.    Their    manners    were    the 

broadest ! 

Our  lives  and  gowns  have  a  more  decent  fall, — 
Though  "  modest "  may  too  often  mean  but  "  bod- 
iced." 

But  I  know  one  or  two  whom  these  same  bodices 
Alone  can  differentiate  from  goddesses. 

And  Ellinor  Van  Smythe  in  Pre-Byzantian 
Days,  would  have  been  as  "noble  and  antique" 

(I  leave  out  "nude"  because  it  spoils  the  scansion) 
As  the  most  natural  and  uncinctured  Greek. 

Indeed,  here  in  New  York,  in  her  own  mansion, 
All  tailor-made  and  boned,  'twere  far  to  seek 

A  grace  more  lithe,  free,  undulant  than  hers, 

Even  in  Olympus'  half-clad  roisterers. 

The  coquetry  in  her  look  was  not  all  mocking; 

'Twas    half    the    caged    thing's    startle.    Born    a 

roamer 
She  found  escape  of  soul  in  being  shocking. 

Witty  she  was,  and  wicked;  knew  her  Omar, 
Browning  and  Kipling, — yet  was  no  blue-stocking — 

(By  the  way,  what  a  curious  misnomer!) 
All  the  blue-stockings  ever  I  knew  write 
Wore  stockings  of  the  most  indecent  white.) 
118 


When  I  say  "  wicked,"  I  don't  mean  to  say 

Wicked  in  any  sense  of  reprobation ; 
There  was  no  malice  mingled  with  her  clay 

(Unless  in  the  sly  French  signification)  ; 
She  was  only  wicked  in  that  charming  way 

That  drives  good  women  to  exasperation, 
Because  it  puts  them  at  a  disadvantage. 
(Men  won't  take  trouble  in  this  complaisant  age.) 

But  she  was  serious  under  her  frivolity, 
And  in  her  maddest  moods  a  mild  restraint 

Gave  to  her  merriment  a  patrician  quality 
As  far  from  "  sportiness  "  as  from  constraint. 

Her  joyousness  was  not  the  least  like  jollity, — 
St.  Anthony  had  been  ten  times  a  saint, 

Could    he    have    seen    this    queen-rogue    of    Eve's 
daughters 

Pass  like  a  sunbeam  wantoning  on  the  waters. 

And  not  have  thrown  his  scourges  in  the  Nile 

And  whistled  Heaven  down  the  wind,  to  follow 
And  win,  perhaps,  the  guerdon  of  her  smile. 

For,  after  all,  those  dreams  of  his  were  hollow- 
He  knew  they  had  no  substance  all  the  while — 

You  see,  St.  Anthony  was  no  Apollo, 
And,  as  for  tempting  him,  why,  pretty  women 
Weren't  so  hard  up  for  love  as  to  take  him  in. 
119 


What,  that  lean,   scrawny,  knock-kneed,   raw-boned 
lubber, 

Whose  very  fleas  well-nigh  gave  up  the  ghost, 
A  lady-killer?    Why,  'twould  take  a  scrubber 

Like  Hercules  to  scrape  him  down,  almost; 
And  nothing  less  than  burning  India-rubber 

To  clear  the  air!     And  all  that  for  the  boast 
Of  conquering  a  Saint  ?     No,  not  even  vanity 
Could  stomach  such  a  satire  on  humanity. 

Were  there  no  gilded  youth  in  Alexandria, 

No  Alciphrons  nor  Alcibiades, 
To  satisfy  the  taste  for  polyandria? 

I  can't  believe  such  fairy  tales  as  these; 
No,  not  if  Raphael,  Leonardo,  Andrea 

And  Michael  Angelo  combined  should  please 
To  paint  that  dear  old  subject  for  the  nones, 
And  sanctify  its  lechery  with  its  bones. 

No,  either  all  the  painters  and  those  crusty 
Old  chroniclers  were  guying  all  the  while, 

And  Anthony  was  really  young  and  lusty 

And  groomed  and  garbed  the  better  to  beguile ; 

Or  else  those  girls  of  his  were  dim  and  dusty 
Visions  born  of  accumulated  bile, 

Because  the  poor  old  man  had  satyriasis 

(You  take  your  choice,   whichever  way  your  bias 
is). 

120 


Well,  I'm  not  Anthony— thank  God  for  that! 

Though  he's  in  Heaven,  and  I'm — where  I  expected. 
He's  sitting  with  the  angels,  singing  flat ; 

And  I'm  in  hell,  and  not  half  so  dejected 
As  you'd  suppose,  considering  "  where  I'm  at." 

I'm  rather  glad  that  I  was  not  elected 
And  foreordained  to  Heaven  before  earth's  testing, 
I  find  that  hell's  so  much  more  interesting.   > 

In  the  First  Canto  and  two-hundredth  stanza, 
If,  gentle  reader,  you'll  turn  back  to  see 

How  I  began  this  famous  old  romanza, 
When  I  was  something  less  than  thirty-three 

And  still  as  much  on  earth  as  Sancho  Panza 
Though  not  so  certain  I  was  there  as  he, — 

You'll  find  I  told  the  critics  then  (plague  take  them!) 

This  poem  should  be  Epic  as  they  make  them. 

Twelve  books — I've  changed  my  mind  for  twenty- 
four; 

But  that  is  neither  here  nor  there, — the  Iliad 
'S  my  model  now ;  if  Virgil  has  no  more 

Than  twelve,  that's  Virgil's  fault,  not  mine.     And 

will  I  add 
Still  more  hereafter?    That  I  should  deplore, 

When  books  are  Caponsacchi'd  and  Pompilia'd 
Out  of  all  compass.     Still  there  is  no  bar  at  a 
Length  like  Ramayana  or  Mahabharata. 

121 


I   promised,  too,   an  episode   in   Hades, 
Without  which  no  true  Epic  is  complete. 

A  journey  through  the  Valley  of  the  Shade  is 
Undoubtedly  the  proper  Epic  feat, — 

That  hard,  enamelled  country  where  no  blade  is 
Nor  any  footprint  of  returning  feet ! 

You  know  ^neas  said  it,  and  Ulysses, 

In  just  such  epic  poetry  as  this  is. 


But  when  I  planned  to  write  of  those  obscurities 
Where  Dante  says  the  temperature's  at  zero 

(On  this  point  there's  some  conflict  in  authorities) 
I  did  not  think  myself  to  be  the  hero 

Of  that  part  of  my  poem,  nor  confer  at  ease 
With  such  as  Nimrod  there,  or  Nap,  or  Nero 

(Not  such  as  Homer,  Virgil,  Dante  show  them,— 

But  still  it  gets  the  next  world  in  my  poem) . 


But  here  I  am,  and  here  I'm  like  to  stay, 
And  I  can  save  Don  Juan  this  excursion 

By  giving  you  a  rough  sketch  by  the  way 
Of  my  own  knowledge  and  not  mere  assertion. 

Hell  is  not  what  it  was  in  Homer's  day, 
And  if  my  pictures  prove  a  novel  version 

Of  that  dread  place  too  much  ignored  of  late, 

Remember,  that  Hell,  too,  is  up-to-date. 
122 


I  died,  you  know,  for  Greece, — at  Missolonghi. 

Much  good  it  ever  did  the  Greeks  or  me ! 
It  let  me  into  ghostland  by  the  wrong  key, 

And,  for  the  Greeks,  no  doubt  they  think  they're 

free, 
Like  every  other  independent  donkey 

Who  grips  the  name  and  lets  the  substance  be, 
Thinking  his  country  is  more  free  the  smaller  'tis, 
And  that  the  franchise  really  brings  equalities. 

That  land  is  free  where  the  inhabitants 

Are  free ;  the  rest  is  merely  oratory. 
The  trouble  is  that  human  history  grants 

No  glimpse  of  such  a  land  in  all  its  story. 
One  slavery  dies  but  by  another's  lance; 

And  in  the  process  many  men  get  glory, 
But  the  vast  millions  only  fresh  disasters — 
Monarchs  or  mobs— it  is  but  a  change  of  masters. 

Muscle  was  King  once ;  now  the  King  is  money. 

The  form  of  government — the  world's  partition — 
These  things  are  but  the  wax  and  not  the  honey; 

"  The  means  whereby  I  live  "  is  the  condition 
Of  Freedom  as  of  life.    It  is  not  funny 

To  eat  but  by  the  other  man's  permission ; 
And  it  makes  little  difference  to  the  stoker 
If  Thomas  Platt  be  Lord  or  Richard  Croker. 
123 


But  I,  at  least,  was  true  to  Freedom's  cause 
Even  to  the  death  (let  Sou  thy  say  as  much!) 

And,  whether  wise  or  foolish,  let's  not  pause 
To  wonder  now;  it  had  the  lyric  touch. 

And  I'd  not  have  it  other  than  it  was. 
But  the  next  moment  I  was  in  the  clutch 

Of  Something,  of  two  Somethings,  pulling,  hauling 
me, 

Until  I  thought  'twas  Scotch  reviewers  mauling  me. 

When  I  became  a  little  more  aware 
And  they  became  a  little  out  of  breath, 

I  saw  the  Things  that  grappled  with  me  were 
Too  beautiful  to  be  in  thrall  to  Death, 

So  that  I  trembled,  seeing  them  so  fair, 
And  like  the  air-drawn  dagger  of  Macbeth 

The  terror  of  their  immateriality 

Shuddered  my  soul,  still  wonted  to  mortality. 

Till  I  remembered  I  was  immaterial 

As  well  as  they,  and  then  I  grew  more  bold 

And  looked  more  closely  at  their  forms  ethereal. 
One  was  a  Shape  of  Light,  superb  and  cold, 

And  one  of  Darkness,  passionate  and  imperial, 
And    both    of    Beauty.    But    .    .    .    was    I    not 
told—?    .    .    . 

Sure,  not  my  good  and  evil  angels  these  ?    .    .    . 

Why,  I    ...    I  thought  the  angels  were  all  he's ! 
124 


"  Men  have  called  women  angels  for  so  long 
Tis  natural  they  should  call  angels  women," 

I  said ;  "  but  scholars  know  that  that's  all  wrong. 
There  may  be  she-gods  in  the  faith  of  Rimmon, 

But  not  the  Michaels  of  Hebraic  song. 
As  well  imagine  it  was  a  persimmon 

Eve  plucked  in  Eden,  when  it  was  an  apple, 

As  everybody  knows  who's  been  to  Chapel. 

"  Pray  tell  me,  ladies,  why  you  give  the  lie 
To  all  the  grave  Rabbinical  traditions 

With  such  unblushing  muliebriety?  " 
Thereat  they  blushed,  confirming  my  suspicions. 

"  George,"  said  the  Shape  of  Light,  "  pray  tell  me 

why 

We  should  not  here,  as  on  the  earth,  have  mis 
sions? 

In  the  old  days,  of  course,  we  had  no  chance  to ; 

But  you  must  know  we  spirits  are  '  advanced '  too." 

"  Men,"  said  the  darker  beauty,  "  can  no  longer 
Retain  their  old  monopoly  of  the  offices. 

The  cause  of  feminism  grows  daily  stronger. 
And  though  as  guardian  angels  we're  but  novices, 

I  hope  you'll  find  us  subtler,  sweeter,  younger, 
Than  any  cloistered  frump  that  lived  in  Clevis's 

Or  Pepin's  day,  and  knew  no  ways  to  please  men 

Better  than  Biddy  has  for  her  policemen." 

125 


"Madame,"  I  said,  "almost  thou  dost  persuade  me 

To  be  a  feminist.    And,  ladies  both, 
Since  I  have  seen  you,  by  the  God  that  made  me " 

(My  Good  Angel  looked  startled  at  the  oath.) 
"  Since   with   your   beauty  you   have   both   waylaid 
me, " 

(My  fingers  met  the  Dark  One's,  nothing  loth.) 

"  Alike  to  heaven  and  hell  more  reconciled " 

I  trod  here  on  the  other's  boot,  and  smiled. 

That  finished  me.    My  Good  Angel  was  a  prude, 
And  off  she  flew  to  Heaven  in  such  a  huff 

I  thought  her  manner  positively  rude. 
Whereat  my  Evil  Angel  plucked  my  cuff 

And — well — what  other  course  could  be  pursued? 
I  had  but  her — and  wasn't  she  enough  ? — 

I  don't  complain — there  was  some  compensation — 

And  that  is  how  they  settled  my  damnation. 

Hell  (but  it  took  some  time  to  get  to  Hell, 
We  had  so  much  to  say  along  the  road) 

Rose  at  the  last  before  us,  dark  and  fell. 
Far  off  it  lay — or  squatted,  like  a  toad — 

On  the  horizon.    Like  a  sudden  knell 
It  tolled  across  the  waters  wherethrough  we  strode. 

Low,  sinister  and  sinuous  it  crouched, 

As  if  it  menaced  more  than  it  avouched. 
126 


But  that  was  the  outside ;  the  old  walls  stood 
Much  as  they  looked  when  first  they  were  created ; 

^Eons  on  aeons  have  their  towers  withstood 
And  only  grown  more  sullen  as  they  waited ; 

But  they  that  dwell  therein  have  changed  their  mood ; 
The  inside  is  completely  renovated ; 

They  speak  of  the  old  ways  with  an  apology 

And  are  quite  up  in  modern  criminology. 

'Twas  more  poetical  in  times  more  pristine 
Before  Lombroso  led  them  in  new  paths; 

It's  cleaner  now,  and  also  more  Philistine, 
The  grim  stones  hid  with  plastered  over  laths 

And  hung  with  prints  of  Guidos  and  the  Sistine, 
While  Phlegethon  is  used  for  Turkish  baths, 

Dis  piped  and  drained  and  turned  into  a  dormitory 

And  all  Hell  has  become  one  vast  Reformatory. 

Tartarus  is  a  laboratory  now, 

Gymnastics  flourish  in  the  meadows  Stygian, 
The  devils  are  all  doctors  studying  how 

To  bring  their  prisoners  to  true  religion, 
And  Lucifer,  with  spectacles  on  brow, 

Turned  Dry-as-dust,  and  the  whole  whitewashed 

region 

A  dull  regime  to  make  poor  duffers  holy — 
I  prefer  Italy  and  la  Guiccioli. 
127 


Still  it  is  interesting  here  because 
There  are  such  interesting  people — lots ! 

Caesar,  Petronius,  Attila,  Morgause, 
Nell  Gwynne,  Aspasia,  Mary  Queen  of  Scots, 

And  more  good  company  than  I  can  pause 

To  mention,  have  their  numbers,  and  their  cots. 

And  Heaven  is  much  more  boresome,  so  they  say, — 

A  sort  of  middle-class  Y.  M.  C.  A. 

Besides,  this  criminology's  a  fad; 

Nordau  has  killed  it.    Even  now  a  faction 
O'  the  younger  twentieth-century  devils,  glad 

Of  any  change,  is  threatening  reaction. 
And  after  the  carbolic  we  have  had, 

Even  brimstone  would  be  welcome  for  olfaction. 
I  even  note  some  restlessness  in  Lucifer — 
He  feels  he's  not  the  part — as  well  play  crucifer ! 

But  here  we  are — and  here  I  am  (at  present) 
Number  nine  thousand  million  and  nineteen, 

My  photograph's  been  taken,  looking  pleasant ; 
And  filed  with  notes  describing  dress  and  mien, 

What  moles  I  have  and  where,  and  what  malfeasant 
Mattoidal  marks  are  on  my  person  seen, 

Full  measurements  by  the  Bertillon  system, 

And  many  other  matters  to  assist  'em. 

The  only  punishments  that  still  remain 
Are  those  that  fit  the  crime,  Mikado-fashion; 
128 


Each  still  pursues  his  vision,  and  in  vain, 

(Even  after  death  persists  the  ruling  .passion)  ; 

Midas  must  still  heap  useless  gain  on  gain, 
And  hapless  love  make  Romeo's  cheek  grow  ashen ; 

Napoleon  still  leads  armies — to  his  .ruin, 

And  I  continue  still  to  write  Don  Juan. 

Now  if  you  ask  me  why  I  don't  go  on 
Where  I  left  off,  and  finish  up  the  story 

Of  how  the  Duchess  played  the  ghost  for  fun 
And  whether  friendship  grew  more  amatory 

In  Lady  Adeline  and  that  other  one — 
Who  was  so  innocent  and  pinafore-y — 

What  was  her  name? — well,  anyhow,  you  see, 

I  forget  what  that  story  was  to  be. 

Dying  has  put  it  all  out  of  my  head, — 
You  see,  it's  quite  an  incident  to  die, 

And  the  excitement  of  it  broke  the  thread 
Of  what  I  had  in  mind  to  write.    So  I 

Must  let  dead  cantos  bury  their  own, dead 
And  write  of  what  the  public  wants  to  buy. 

Southy's  forgotten;  so  is  Castlereagh; 

But  there  are  fools  and  scoundrels  still  to-day  . 

I'm  just  as  well  informed  as  a  New  Yorker 
Of  Wall  Street,  Waldorf,  Tammany,  what  not; 

We've  a  brand-new  kinetoscope — a  corker — 
It's  just  as  good  as  being  on  the  spot — 
129 


A  ticker  gives  the  latest  price  of  pork  or 

Of  Atchinson — or  any  other  lot — 
And  when  we're  bored  with  happenings  infernal 
We  read  the  extras  of  The  New  York  Journal. 

So  I  commence  anew  my  song  extemporary, 
And  if  you  think  it  strange  that  I  who  died 

In  '24,  so  soon  become  contemporary 
With  you  of  '99,  that's  quite  beside 

The  question.     Here  we  know  not  of  things  tem 
porary  ; 
Past,  future,  present,  all  with  us  abide; 

In  Hell  a  thousand  years  are  as  a  day 

(It's  also  true  if  turned  the  other  way.) 

We,  being  out  of  time, — but  then  you  wouldn't  • 
Be  able  to  understand  me  if  I  told  you — 

I  couldn't  when  on  earth  (but  I'm  no  student 
And  never  was)     .    .     You  see,  Time  doesn't  en 
fold  you; 

You  enfold  Time.     But,  really,  it's  imprudent 
To  talk  of  metaphysics.    Why,  a  cold  dew 

Starts     on     my    brow     when    I     see     Kant     draw 
nearer    .    .    . 

Just  ask  Tom  Davidson  to  make  this  clearer. 

********* 
'899 

130 


VI 


PARTING 

GONE,  and  I  spoke  no  word  to  bid  her  stayl 

Gone,  and  I  sit  benumbed  and  scarce  can  rise  ;- 
Gone  with  the  light  of  new  love  in  her  eyes, 
The  splendid  promise  of  the  fervent  day. 

She  loves  me,  Ocean,  loves  me!    And  I  may 
Not  lisp  the  whisper  of  my  great  surprise, 
Save  to  the  waves  and  pebbles  and  the  skies 
And  to  the  sea-gulls  circling  in  the  spray. 

She  loves  me !    Till  she  went  I  did  not  know 
Her  soul.    This  is  a  mystery  which  no  art 
Can  picture  and  no  wisdom  understand. 

And  she  is  gone  and  I  beheld  her  go, 

With  so  much  awe  at  sight  of  her  pure  heart 
I  dared  not  kiss  the  fingers  of  her  hand. 


KRONOS 

As  one  of  those  huge  monsters  of  the  sky, 
Fierce  with  the  flame  of  fiery  floating  hair, 
Falls  from  the  zenith  through  the  upper  air, 

Threatening  the  planets  from  their  paths  on  high, 

Jarring  creation  from  its  harmony, 

Spreading  on  earth  destruction  and   despair, 
Affrighting  men  to  temples  and  vain  prayer, 

So  from  the  summit  of  his  majesty 

133 


He  falls,  and  heaven  is  shaken  as  flame.    Zeus  reigns, 
Usurping;  and  no  matter  what  is  left — 

How  smooth  or  tangled  grows  his  god-life's  weft — 
With  how  swift  footing  or  how  slow  the  years 

Speed  on,  for  him  forever  there  remains 
A  thunder  and  a  chaos  in  the  spheres. 

1883. 


TO    PROF.    C.    F.    RICHARDSON 

{For   the   dedication   of   a   book.) 

SUCH  as  the  seashore  gathers  from  the  sea — 
Shells  whose  glad  opal  sunlight  makes  more  glad, 
And  dead  men's  bones  by  bitter  seaweed  clad — 
Teacher  and  friend,  these  songs  I  send  to  thee. 

Gay  things  and  ghastly  mingled,  seem  to  me 
Here  are  alike;  the  merry  and  the  sad, 
The  trivial  and  tragic,  good  and  bad, 
For  so  I  find  the  ways  of  life  to  be. 

Evil  and  good  are  woven  upon  the  loom 
Of  fate  in  such  inextricable  wise 
That  no  man  may  be  bold  to  judge  and  say, 

"This  thing  is  good,  that  evil,"  till  the  day 
When  God  shall  blazon  on  regenerate  skies 
The  justice  of  His  pardon  and  His  doom. 

134 


A    YOUTHFUL    POET   TO   HIS    CRITICS 

METHINKS  I  hear  those  dull  men  murmuring  on: 
"  Not  half  bad, — really,  rather  melodious, — 
But  then  he  sighs  too  much,  is  ominous, 

All  minor-keyed,  the  pathos  overdrawn. 

There's    woe    enough    i'    the    world" — this    with    a 

yawn — 

"Why  must  our  songs  be  likewise  dolorous? 
No  nightingales !     The  lark  's  the  bird  for  us ! " 

Ah,  my  poor  fellows,  it  is  night.    When  dawn 

Clarions  in  the  east  and  waits  an  answering  word, 
Then  shall  you  hear  the  loud-resounding  lark,— 

Yea,  Israfel,  passioning  like  the  Arabian  bird 

Whose  heart  of  flame  bore  fruit  of  ancient  tales, 
Shall  thrill  the  very  seraphim  to  hark. 

But  now — content  you  with  the  nightingales. 

May,  1888. 


DANTE    GABRIEL    ROSSETTI 

GONE  art  thou,  then,  O  mystical  musician ! 

Pure  thoughted  singer  of  these  sinful  years ! 

No  more  shall  dreams  and  doubts  and  hopes  and 

fears 
Pass  and  re-pass  before  thy  stricken  vision; 

135 


No  more  from  thine  high  sorrowing  position 

Shall  fall  thy  song — irradiated  tears; 

Alas !  no  more  against  our  listening  ears 
Shall  new  lays  ring  from  thy  lone  lute  Elysian. 
For  unto  thee  at  last  has  rest  been  given, 

Whether  in  sleep  eternal  by  the  shore 

Of  Time's  wide  ocean,  or  in  song  without 
Or  break  or  flaw,  by  the  gold  bar  of  that  heaven, 
From  which  the  blessed  Damosel  leaned  out, 
Sighing  for  thee  in  the  sad  days  of  yore. 

TO  SWINBURNE 
x 

POET  !  thou  art  to  me  a  faery  king 

Dwelling  in  some  weird  place  of  witchery, 
Some  garden  where  unnumbered  roses  vie 
In  color  with  the  hollyhocks  that  spring 

On  every  side  in  scarlet  wantoning 
And  lilies  'neath  the  gaudier  herbage  lie 
And  violets  unclose  their  leaves  near  by 
While  stately  sunflowers  guard  each  opening. 

And  in  that  garden-realm  magnificent 
I   often  see  thee  walking — stopping  now 
To  list  to  hollow  murmurs,  now  to  scent 

Some  flower's  subtile  perfume,  wherein  pent, 
A  rich,  rare  pleasance  lies  that  none  but  thou 
And  thy  strange  fellow-bard,  the  wind,  can  know. 

136 


TO  SWINBURNE 


OFT,  too,  I  see  thee  on  the  rocky  shore, 
Worshiping  all  the  infinitely  strong 
Grand  godhead  that  to  ocean  doth  belong, 
Or  prostrate  with  uncovered  head  before 

The  sun,  whom  even  Ocean  doth  adore, 
Who  giveth  speech  to  every  poet's  tongue, 
Who  is  the  only  king  and  god  of  song, 
From  whom  all  bards  receive  their  secret  lore. 

For  thou  art  brother  of  the  elements; 
There  is  a  spirit  of  kinship  that  compels 
Thy  feet  to  stray  in  paths  where  nothing  dwells 

Save  the  triune  power  that  knows  nor  death   nor 

birth 

But  sways  all  nature  in  omnipotence — 
Sea,  wind  and  sun,  the  gods  who  rule  the  earth. 


PER   ASPERA   AD   ASTRA 
To  AMELIE  RIVES. 

THERE  is  no  heart  that  sorrows  not.  The  higher 
The  path  winds  for  our  feet  o'er  shards  and  stones 
The  sharper  cuts  the  stinging  wind  that  moans 

137 


And  wails  for  rage  of  unattained  desire. 
They  that  are  struggling  in  the  lower  mire, 
For  all  their  sorrowing,  never  know  the  groans, 
The  Mutius-agony,  the  dread  monotones 
Of  Golgotha,  that  whoso  would  aspire 
Must  shudder  with  throughout  earth's  period. 
Crowned  Poet!  read  God's  message  through  the 

storm ; 
"Yea,  there  shall  pierce  thine  own  heart,  too, 

a  sword; 

For  Art,  like  Mary,  handmaid  of  the  Lord, 
Tears  out  of  her  own  quivering  flesh  the  form 
To  clothe  the  unseen  and  living  Word  of  God. 

WASHINGTON,  1888. 


A  REMNANT  REMAINETH 
To  AMELIE  RIVES. 

AMID  this  clamor  of  the  silly  throng 

Who  boast  that  they  have  wrought  true  counterpart 
Of  Nature's  face — ah  me,  they  miss  her  heart ! — 
Who  scoff  at  them  that  for  God's  music  long 
And  for  the  love  of  beauty  suffer  wrong, 
Who  would  turn  Helicon  into  a  mart 
And  smite  with  Cromwell-stroke  the  throat  of  Art 

138 


And  slay  with  Judas-kiss  the  lips  of  Song, 
My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold  afar 
A  new  hand  stretched  to  take  the  torch  of  Truth, 
Which  seer  and  saint  pass  down  from  age  to  youth 
To  light  the  future  Temple's  inner  shrines. 
Across  the  dusk  I  see  and  name  a  star ; 

Pray  God  that  Phosphor  and  not  Hesper  shines. 

WASHINGTON,  1888. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

THERE  was  a  poet  in  him.     But  his  art 

Grew  too  faint  hearted  to  withstand  the  strain 
And  turmoil  of  the  age.    He  sought  to  gain 
Peace  only;  all  the  passion  of  his  heart 

He  slew,  that,  a  little  space  apart 
For  quiet  of  his  soul  he  might  attain; 
And  so  the  poet  in  him  fell  self-slain, 
Sang  its  own  swan-song  and  was  not.     O  heart! 

He  has  found  a  deeper  peace  than  he  pursued 
And  his  worn  eyes  at  last  behold  the  ways 
That  open  for  man's  limitless  up-leaping; 

And  God's  voice  softly  wakes  his  poethood 
Anew,  as  the  Master  bent  of  old  to  raise 
The  dust  that  loved  him,  saying :  "  Not  dead,  but 
sleeping." 

139 


VII 


(.This  group,  which  has  been  called  the  last  sonnets,  was 
written  with  a  dramatic  sonnet  sequence  in  mind.) 


142 


MAN    AND    CRAFTSMAN 
To  MARNA. 

TRUST  not  my  words,  for  I  can  sing  as  sweet 
To  any  woman  as  I  sing  to  you. 
Oh,  pick  me  out  a  trull,  a  fright,  a  shrew, 
That  I  may  praise  her  as  an  artist's  feat 
And  show  how  much  my  mastery  is  complete 
By  making  the  impossible  ring  true ! 
Yet  I  will  not  do  this,  which  I  might  do, 
Nor  lay  no  lying  song  at  alien  feet. 
—But  you,  if  you  would  know  me  true  indeed, 
Trust  not  my  songs,  albeit  they  do  not  lie; 
Try  me  by  nothing  but  my  naked  soul, 
Try  me  by  nothing  but  that  deathless  deed — 
For  if  I  stood  by  you  in  act  to  die, 
I   could  not  speak  myself  more   clean  and  whole. 
August,  1898. 

MODELS 
To  MARNA. 

So  memory  and  imagination  bring 

Their  beauty  to  my  dreams — for  some  I  knew, 

And  some  I  guessed  at,  looking  at  the  blue 

Of  the  elusive  sea  and  wondering. 

Dear  women  with  vain  beauty  vanishing, 

143 


I  hold  them  for  a  moment  in  my  view 

And  try  if  I  may  catch  some  little  clew 

To  understand  their  mystery  as  I  sing. 

Dear  women  loved  in  fancy  or  indeed, 

Dear  loves  and  loves  of  dreams,  I  set  them  there 

To  find  one  note  of  all  they  echo  of;— 

But  of  such  easel  hours  take  thou  no  heed, 

No,  though  I  stripped  their  flushing  spirits  bare. 

My  models  they,  but  only  thou  my  love. 

August,  1898. 

THE   LAST   LOVE  OF  GAWAINE 

You  will  betray  me — oh,  deny  it  not! 

What  right  have  I,  alas,  to  say  you  nay? 

I,  traitor  of  ten  loves,  what  shall  I  say 

To  plead  with  you  that  I  be  not  forgot? 

My  love  has  not  been  squandered  jot  by  jot 

In  little  loves  that  perish  with  the  day. 

My  treason  has  been  ever  to  the  sway 

Of  queens;  my  faith  has  known  no  petty  blot. 

You  will  betray  me,  as  I  have  betrayed, 

And  I  shall  kiss  the  hand  that  does  me  wrong. 

And  oh,  not  pardon — I  need  pardon  more — 

But  in  proud  torment,  grim  and  unafraid, 

Burn  in  my  hell  nor  cease  the  bitter  song 

Your  beauty  triumphs  in  forevermore. 

July,  1898. 

144 


WHAT   THOUGH   YOU   LOVE   ME 

WHAT  though  you  love  me?    Have  you  no  caprice 

Would  kill  my  heart  if  I  but  knew  of  it? 

What  kisses  did  you  leave  me  to  commit? 

Through  the  long  nights  and  days  I  have  no  peace 

To  think  your  hand  may  lie  without  release 

One  little  moment,  somewhere,  where  you  sit — 

You  two— you  and  the  other — fingers  knit 

Together  while  all  words  an  instant  cease ! 

Who  he  may  be  I  know  not — and  I  know 

You  love  me,  yes,  you  love  me;  but  my  mind 

Is   a   dark    wood   where  nightsome    shadows    start. 

My  hand  is  nervous  as  with  daggers — Oh! 

The  jealousy  that  chokes  and  makes  me  blind! 

The  brooding  menace  of  my  bitter  heart! 

July,  1898. 


HURT   ME 

HURT  me!     For  your  dear  sake  I  could  be  driven 

With  whips  of  scorpions,  and  smile  at  Fate. 

Hurt  me !     It  greatens  me — it  greatens  even 

The  love  I  have  that  is  already  great. 

If  you  were  always  dear  and  sweet  and  true, 

And  came  to  me  with  kisses  and  delight, 

How  could  I  show  the  love  I  have  for  you, 

145 


How  could  that  love  attain  its  highest  height? 
Hurt  me,  and  spare  not!     I  am  yours  for  joy, 
And  yours  a  hundred  fold,  then,  for  despair. 
I  would  not  change  my  rack  for  any  toy 
That  sleek  Antinous  tosses  in  the  air. 
Ay,  hurt  me!     For  your  sake  I  will  endure 
To  make  my  pain  the  page  to  your  amour. 


FALSE    TRUTH 

OH!  stab  me  with  denial  of  your  love, 

But  do  not  torture  me  in  this  slow  hell 

Of  thoughts  I  dare  not  tell  the  stars  above, 

Of  fears  I  dare  not  hear  the  night  winds  tell! 

If  this  be  truth,  oh!  tell  me  any  lie, 

And  I  will  wear  my  heart  upon  my  sleeve, 

Build  me  an  altar  where  the  words  may  lie 

And  make  it  my  religion  to  believe! 

But  let  it  not  be  truth  that  you  should  give 

Accustomed  kisses  lest  a  robber  lack, 

Not  filch  from  Love  his  high  prerogative 

That  Mercy  wear  false  ermine  on  her  back ! 

Let  him  be  starved— and  starve  me  if  you  will- 
But  not  for  less  than  love  smite  love  and  kill! 

August,  1898. 

146 


LOVE  AND  PITY 

ARE  you  too  tender-hearted  to  be  true? 

True   to    your    love,    to    me    and    your    own    soul? 

Will  you  for  pity  give  what  is  love's  due 

And  leave  love  lorn  and  begging  for  a  dole? 

Then  pity  is  a  thief,  that  steals  love's  purse 

To  squander  in  dishonest  charity; 

Then  love  is  outcast,  with  the  exile's  curse  \. 

Who  sees  his  varlets  loot  his  seigneury. 

Is  love  so  hard  it  recks  not  where  I  lie, 

While  pity  melts  at  aught  that  he  endures? 

/  deserve  nothing,  save  that  you  ensky 

No  other  with  those  vesper  lips  of  yours — 
/  deserve  nothing;  but  your  love  of  me 
Deserves  of  you  the  courage  to  be  free, 

August,  1898. 


LOVE'S   SILENCE. 

I  DO  not  ask  your  love  as  having  rights 

Because  of  all  there  is  between  us  two. 

Love    has    no    rights,    Love    has   but   his    delights, 

Which  but  delight  because  they  are  not  due. 

The  highest  merit  any  man  can  prove 

Is  not  enough  to  merit  what  Love  gives, 

And  Love  would  lose  its  quality  of  love, 

147 


Lived  it  for  any  cause  but  that  it  lives. 
Therefore  I  do  not  plead  my  gentle  thought, 
My  foolish  wisdom  that  would  make  you  free. 
My  sacrifice,  my  broken  heart  be  nought, 
Even  my  great  love  itself,  the  best  of  me! 
Martyr  of  Love,  I  see  no  other  way 
But  to  keep  silence  in  your  sight,  and  pray. 


AU   SEUIL 

LE  destin  nous  a  pris  de  sa  main  forte, 

II  nous  a  pris  en  plein  soleil,  soudain, 

II  nous  a  pris  avec  son  haut  dedain 

Et  il  nous  a  montre  la  sombre  porte 

Ou  nous  ne  pouvons  qu'entrer.     II  nous  porte 

Jusqu'au  seuil! — Maintenant,    (oh  lourde  main!) 

Nous  connaissons  le  secret  du  chemin 

Comme  on  connait  Tame   d'une  amie  morte. 

Au  dela  de  ce  seuil  quel  noir  aux  dents, 
Quel  inconnu  terrible  nous  attend? 
Peut-etre — 1'ame  de  I'homme  est  si  folle! — 
On  rencontrera  le  sourire  d'un  dieu 
Qui  nous  benira  de  ses  grands  yeux  bleus 
Et  nous  rassurera  de  ses  mains  molles. 

GOULDSBORO,  September,   1898. 
148 


Launcelot    &    Guenevere 

A  Poem   in   Dramas  by   RICHARD     HOVEY 

L   The   QUEST   of  MERLIN.      A  Masque. 
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"The  Quest  of  Merlin  "  shows  indisputable  talent  and 
indisputable  metrical  faculty.  —  The  Athenaeum,  London. 

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denied  that  the  singer  is  master  of  the  technique  of  his 
art;  that  for  him  our  stubborn  English  tongue  becomes 
fluent  and  musical.  .  .  .  Underlying  all  these  evidences 
of  artistic  skill  is  a  deeper  intent,  revealing  in  part  the 
poet's  philosophy  of  being.  .  .  .  —  Washington  Post. 

"  The  Quest  of  Merlin  "  has  all  the  mystery  and  exquis 
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.  .  .  The  volume  shows  powers  of  a  very  unusual  qual 
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and  inevitableness  of  blank  verse,  free  alike  from  con 
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throated,  vibrating  with  passionate  sensibility.  —  HAMILTON 
AIDE,  in  The  Nineteenth  Century,  London. 

There  are  few  young  poets  who  start  so  well  as  Mr. 
Richard  Hovey.  He  has  the  freest  lilt  of  any  of  the 
younger  Americans.  —  WILLIAM  SHARP,  in  The  Academy, 
London. 

The  strength  and  flexibility^  of  the  verse  are  a  heritage 
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tic  Drama.     $i.25  net. 

"  The  Birth  of  Galahad  "  is  the  finest  of  the  trilogy,  both 
in  sustained  strength  of  the  poetry  and  in  dramatic  unity. — 
GEORGE  HAMLIN  FITCH,  in  San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

It  is  written  with  notable  power,  showing  a  strong  dra 
matic  .understanding  and  a  clear  dramatic  instinct.  Mr. 
Hovey  took  his  risk  when  he  boldly  entered  Tennyson's 
close,  but  we  cannot  see  that  he  suffers. — The  Independent, 
New  York. 

Richard  Hovey  .  .  .  must  at  least  be  called  a  true 
and  remarkable  poet  in  his  field.  He  can  not  only  say 
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sive  to  say.  .  .  .  Nothing  modern  since  the  appear 
ance  of  Swinburne's  "  Atalanta  in  Calydon  "  surpasses  them 
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"  Taliesin  "  is  a  poet's  poem.  As  a  part  of  the  "  Poem 
in  Dramas,"  it  introduces  the  second  trilogy,  and  prefigures 
"  The  Quest  of  the  Graal."  It  is  in  many  ways  the  author's 
highest  achievement.  It  is  the  greatest  study  of  rhythm 
we  have  in  English.  It  is  the  greatest  poetic  study  that 
we  have  of  the  artist's  relation  to  life,  and  of  his  develop 
ment.  And  it  is  a  significant  study  of  life  itself  in  its 
highest  aspiration. — CURTIS  HIDDEN  PAGE,  in  The  Bookman. 

No  living  poet  whose  mother-tongue  is  English  has  writ 
ten  finer  things  than  are  scattered  through  "  Taliesin." — 
RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD,  in  The  Mail  and  Express,  New- 
York. 

It  is  sheer  poetry  or  it  is  nothing,  the  proof  of  an  ear 
and  a  voice  which  it  seems  ill  to  have  lost  just  at  the 
moment  of  their  complete  training.  In  his  death  there  is 
no  doubt  that  America  has  lost  one  of  her  best  equipped 
lyrical  and  dramatic  poets. — EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN, 
in  An  American  Anthology. 

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&  Guenevere  Series.  $1.25  net. 

It  had  been  Mr.  Hoyey's  intention  to  complete  his  notable 
Arthurian  Series  in  nine  dramas,  of  which  only  four  had 
been  published  at  the  time  of  his  death.  He  left  frag 
mentary  portions  in  manuscript  of  all  the  remaining  five, 
and  these  fragments  have  been  edited  and  arranged,  with 
notes,  by  his  widow,  as  the  only  possible  attempt  toward 
completion  of  this  matchless  monument  of  American  verse. 


ALONG     THE     TRAIL 

A    Boat    of  Lyrics    by    RICHARD      HOVEY 

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Grosvenor   Goodhue.     $1.25   net. 

Richard  Hovey  has  made  a  definite  place  for  himself 
among  the  poets  of  to-day.  This  little  volume  illustrates 
all  his  good  qualities  of  sincerity,  fervor,  and  lyric  grace. 
He  sings  the  songs  of  the  open  air,  of  battle  and  comrade 
ship,  of  love,  and  of  country, — and  they  are  all  songs  well 
sung.  In  addition,  his  work  is  distinguished  by  a  fine 
masculine  optimism  that  is  all  too  rare  in  the  poetry  of  the 
younger  generation. — Saturday  Evening  Post,  Philadelphia. 

As  a  whole  it  stands  the  most  searching  test — you  read  it 
again  and  again  with  constantly  increasing  pleasure,  satis 
faction,  and  admiration. — Boston  Herald. 

Mr.  Hovey  has  the  full  technical  equipment  of  the  poet, 
and  he  has  a  poet's  personality  to  express, — a  personality 
new  and  fresh,  healthy  and  joyous,  manly,  vigorous,  earnest. 
Added  to  this  he  has  the  dramatic  power  which  is  essential 
to  a  broad  poetic  endowment.  He  is  master  of  his  art  and 
master  of  life.  He  is  the  poet  of  joy  and  belief  in  life.  He 
is  the  poet  of  comradeship  and  courage. — CURTIS  HIDDEN 
PAGE,  in  The  Bookman. 

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I.    Songs  from  Vagabondia 
II.    More  Songs  from  Vagabondia 
III.    Last  Songs   from  Vagabondia 

By    BLISS    CARMAN     and    RICHARD    HOVEY 

Size  4^x7  inches;  pages,  75  (approx.)  per 
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per  vol.;  sold  separately. 

"  Hail  to  the  poets!  Good  poets!  Real  poets!  .  .  . 
They  are  the  free,  untrammelled  songs  of  men  who  sing 
because  their  hearts  are  full  of  music;  and  they  have  their 
own  way  of  singing,  too.  These  songs  ought  to  go  sing 
ing  themselves  into  every  library  from  Denver  to  both  seas, 
for  they  are  good  to  know.  There  is  not  one  line  that 
was  made  in  the  sweat  of  the  brow, — and  so  the  book  goes 
dancing  and  singing  in  words,  and  here  and  there  sounding 
the  deeper  note  that  always  fills  9ut  the  sweet  harmony  of 
a  poet's  thought." — New  York  Times. 

A    NEW    HOLIDAY    EDITION 

OF  THE   THREE   SERIES   OF 

SONGS     FROM    VAGABONDIA 

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